


Off the Record

by FrancisWilloughby



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Journalism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Eventual Romance, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancisWilloughby/pseuds/FrancisWilloughby
Summary: Armie Hammer is unhappily employed at online publication Buzzbeat where he writes about pop culture but dreams of covering hard news. Timothée Chalamet, a rising Hollywood star whose love life is the subject of much speculation, has been spotted with a new girlfriend. At his editor's direction, Armie reluctantly sets out to prove the relationship is fake.





	1. Here's your assignment

**Author's Note:**

> Trying my hand at fanfic for the first time and honestly not sure how this is going to go. I wanted to write a story where both Armie and Tim were reporters, but I couldn't come up with an idea that wouldn't eventually be dull (Armie covers a City Council meeting; Tim is on the scene of a stake-out) or convoluted. So I split the difference. 
> 
> This is complete fiction.

On a sunny Monday morning in midtown Manhattan, Armie Hammer is seriously reconsidering his life choices. Three years out of journalism school and everything is, most definitely, not going according to plan. 

Sure, he’s living in New York City and he has a decent apartment and good friends. And honestly, given the state of his chosen field — newspapers are laying off staff, magazines are transitioning to web only and even once flush online publications are struggling to bring in advertising revenue — Armie knows he’s lucky to have a job. 

But, god, this job. As a pop culture writer at Buzzbeat, Armie is responsible for keeping up with the shenanigans of the Kardashians and their coterie of models and rappers; as well as a broad spectrum of actors and pop singers, Instagram influencers and reality stars. It’s a far cry from uncovering corruption at City Hall or asking tough questions at the White House press briefing, which is what he always dreamed of doing. What he hoped he’d be doing by now. 

Armie sighs and refocuses on his computer screen. He has 10 minutes to finish a post on a Twitter feud between a liberal celebrity cookbook author and a Fox News personality. Someone was dragged, the other clapped back; at this point, these things practically write themselves. 

Out of the corner of his eye he spies a Slack message from his editor. 

 **Lauren:** Armie, can you come to my office? I’d like to discuss something with you. 

 **Armie:** Sure, just give me five minutes.

He quickly types his final pithy sentence and posts. Rising from his chair he grabs a notebook, pen and his coffee, which is already cold. He considers stopping by the kitchen to zap it in the microwave on his way to Lauren’s office, but thinks better of it. Whatever ridiculous assignment she has for him now, he’d rather hear it first then head out for a fresh cup with Justin if he needs to vent.

“Hey Lauren, is this still a good time?” Armie asks, pausing at the threshold. 

Lauren looks up from her phone and waves him inside. “Close the door and have a seat.” 

Immediately Armie’s heart rate kicks up — has he let the snark get out of control? Did someone finally figure out he hates writing this tripe? Lauren is smiling though, so he must not be in trouble.  

“What do you know about Timothée Chalamet?” 

He blinks and stares blankly at her for a minute while he searches his mind. _Is he the lead singer of that French indie band all his female friends keep gushing about? No, that’s Thierry somebody-or-other._ Then it comes to him.

“Is he the kid who, um, had relations with a peach in that movie?” Armie feels his cheeks flush at the memory. 

Lauren smirks and pushes her candy apple red glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “That’s him,” she says. “That was his first starring role and he was nominated for an Oscar. Now, directors are clamoring to cast him in everything. He’s Hollywood’s reigning 'It Boy'.” 

Armie conjures an image of wild mahogany curls, soulful green eyes flecked with gold and luscious lips. He clears his throat. 

“OK, so what about him?” 

“Well, you know how these things go. Chalamet convincingly played a bisexual character, so there’s been endless speculation about his sexual orientation. I know, I know,” she adds, raising her hands when Armie rolls his eyes. “It’s acting. But people are small-minded and he also wears a lot of pink and floral suits and talks openly about being emotionally vulnerable, so he must be gay, right?” 

Shrugging, she leans back in her chair and shakes her head. “Anyway, after years of being publicly single, he has a semi-famous new girlfriend,” she pauses dramatically, “allegedly.” 

Armie has no idea where this conversation is going. “Uh, what do you mean allegedly?” 

Lauren beckons him around her desk and with a few mouse clicks he’s staring at paparazzi photos of Timothée Chalamet and a young woman he doesn’t recognize strolling hand in hand, hugging and exchanging what appear to be rather tepid kisses. 

“Does that look genuine to you?” 

“Maybe? I don’t know. Their body language does seem a little off, I guess.” Armie leans closer, squinting at one of the kissing photos and notices their lips aren’t actually touching. Huh. 

“Come on Armie, this is fake as fuck!” Lauren squeals. “And we’re gonna prove it.” 

* * * *

Armie stops beside Justin’s desk. Beneath his summer tan, he’s ashen and there’s a light sheen of perspiration across his forehead. “Can you take a break? I need coffee. And a smoke.” 

“Whoa, what’s the matter with you?” Justin asks as he pockets his phone and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. 

“Not in here,” Armie whispers. 

He’s silent all the way down in the elevator and during the three blocks to their favorite coffee shop. He doesn’t speak to Justin until they’re seated at an outdoor table far from other customers.

Armie takes a deep breath.  

“Lauren wants me to prove this up-and-coming young actor is in a fake relationship with the daughter of a big celebrity as a way to, and I quote, ‘expose Hollywood’s persistent discrimination against gay performers, challenge the industry’s reinforcement of toxic masculinity and uncover how publicists, managers and studios conspire to arrange relationships for positive press and to keep actors in the closet.” 

He sucks hard on his vape pen, reaches for his coffee and realizes his hand is shaking. 

“What the actual fuck?!” Justin shouts, then lowers his voice when Armie scowls. “Is she serious? How the hell are you supposed to do that?” 

“She has this crazy idea that I can like, go undercover or some shit, and cozy up to the guy. Get him to reveal his deepest secrets,” Armie groans and rubs his face. “But here’s one of the many problems with this cockamamie scheme, he really may be dating this woman because he’s not gay. Or bi, for that matter.” 

“Clearly she has some kind of delusional _All the President’s Men_ complex. I mean, Buzzbeat is not the fucking Washington Post and she’s no Ben Bradlee,” Justin sniffs. “Who’s the actor anyway?”

“Timothée Chalamet. You know, he was in _Call Me by Your Name_.”  

Justin bursts into laughter. 

“What? What’s so funny?” 

“Armie, I know your gaydar is prone to misfiring, but that kid is as queer as we are. Bet on it.” 

“Whatever,” he grumbles. “If he is, I’m not going to out him, that’s for damn sure. I’ll have to find a way to do this bullshit story without addressing his sexuality.”

“Well, look at it this way. This will get you off the 15 posts per day hamster wheel and give you time to dig deep and work your industry sources. And it could turn out to be interesting, if you can get Chalamet to open up to you. Not to mention the perks.” 

“What perks?” 

“You basically get to stalk a hot guy on the clock,” Justin grins around his cup. 

For the first time that morning Armie smiles. “Fuck you.” 

* * * *

He spends the rest of the day combing through Timothée Chalamet’s social media accounts. His Instagram has photos of artwork, abstract images, designer shoes and street scenes from cities across the globe. 

Not a saccharine inspirational quote to be found, Armie notes with satisfaction. No pictures of the supposed girlfriend either, which he finds curious.

His Twitter activity is pretty sporadic, but he does interact with people in a fun way that seems genuine. Next, he turns to fan accounts to find out where Chalamet has been spotted around the city. One East Village location pops up repeatedly. 

“Well, I guess I know where I’m having coffee tomorrow,” Armie mutters. 

 


	2. On the Beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie puts his plan in motion.

Armie is kind of freaking out. 

He’s frantically digging through his closet and tossing clothes on his bed trying to put together an outfit that says effortlessly stylish without screaming thirsty. He catches a glimpse of his panicked expression in the mirror over his dresser and chuckles.

This isn’t a date, he reminds himself. Timothée Chalamet is a potential source, that’s all. Even if the young actor does show up at Mud Coffee this morning, Armie has no intention of speaking to him. He just wants to observe.  

Armie settles on a light blue linen button down and dark jeans. He drapes the strap of his leather messenger bag across his chest, grabs his phone, keys and sunglasses and heads out the door. 

It’s almost 8 a.m. when he arrives at the bustling coffee shop. He has no idea what time celebrities typically roll out of bed when they aren’t shooting, but he can’t imagine Chalamet would be there any earlier. Armie orders a soy latte and hunkers down at a table with an unobstructed view of the entrance. He pulls out his laptop and browses his favorite news sites, keeping one eye on the door. 

By 11:30 he’s on his third coffee and second muffin (blueberry this time) and ready to pack it in and go to the office. 

“So, Timmy didn’t come in this morning?” He overhears one of the baristas say. 

“Nope. I’m pretty sure he’s back from LA, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of days.” 

 _Fuck_. Armie may have to rethink his strategy. He retrieves his phone from his pocket and sees that Chalamet has posted an Instagram story. The brief video clip shows a pair of white sneakers walking on a paved path, possibly in a park. 

Armie groans. That could be fucking anywhere in the city. He gathers his belongings and strikes out for the subway which he’s sure will be unbearable on this muggy July day. 

* * * *

Lauren is less than impressed with his first day on the Chalamet beat. 

“So, you just sat in the coffee shop and hoped he’d show up?” She’s incredulous. He’s defensive. 

“Well, yeah. He goes there a lot and it’s not like I know where he lives or —“ 

“Armie, you’re a reporter aren’t you? Use those investigative skills you learned at Columbia to find out where Chalamet lives. I expect you to make contact with him by the end of the week.” 

Armie bites back a smartass retort and nods. Sure, he could check public databases for the kid’s address. But despite Justin’s joke about stalking, Armie wants to avoid skulking around outside Chalamet’s apartment building like some kind of two-bit private investigator. He decides to do some more online sleuthing and try Mud again in the morning. 

An hour later, Armie is scrolling through Instagram looking for enough posts to put together a ‘Stars in the Hamptons’ story when his phone vibrates with a text from Tara, a publicist he’s known for a few years. They aren’t exactly friends, but they have a mutually beneficial professional relationship — Armie has written a few pieces about some of her less famous clients when they needed press, and in return Tara has given him some juicy exclusives.

It occurs to Armie that she’s the perfect person to help him understand the ins and outs of arranged celebrity couplings. 

 **Tara:** Armie, hey, I have something you may be interested in. 

 **Armie:** Hey, Tara what’s up?

 **Tara:** Bo Burnham and Elsie Fisher will be in town in two weeks promoting Eighth Grade. I’d love to have them come in and talk to you; maybe do a video too?  

 **Armie:** Cool, send me dates/times and I’ll coordinate with our video team.

 **Tara:** Awesome! Thanks, Armie. 

 **Armie:** No problem. But maybe you could do me a favor? 

 **Tara:** I’ll try…

 **Armie:** I’m working on a story about fake celeb relationships, how they work, who arranges them and why etc. and I could use some background. 

A couple of minutes go by without a reply, and Armie is just about to text her again when his phone rings.

“Tara?” 

“Armie, yeah, that’s not something I really want to discuss in writing.” 

He laughs. “Are you kidding?”

“I’m serious,” she pauses, “look Armie, this is a sensitive topic and I can’t talk about it on the record.” 

“I understand,” he says, although he’s not entirely sure he does.

“I want to help, though, because you’ve always come through for me.” He waits for her to continue. “We have to be discreet. How about you come to my place Thursday morning around 8 for breakfast?” 

“Sounds good. Thanks, Tara.” 

“I’ll text my address. See you then.” 

Armie ends the call and frowns. _What kind of cloak and dagger bullshit is this?_

* * * *

When he arrives home that evening his roommate, Maya, is blasting Janelle Monae and stir-frying something that smells gingery and delicious. Maya is vegan and although Armie is partial to a thick steak, he loves her cooking. 

“Hey, you’re just in time for dinner,” she says, sprinkling peanuts and cilantro over the finished dish. “Pour us some wine.”

Armie and Maya met sophomore year at UC Berkeley when they lived in the co-ops and have been best friends ever since. At first, they seemed like an unlikely match — he’s the scion of a wealthy, conservative family from Los Angeles and she grew up in Oakland, the only child of African-American civil rights attorneys. But they bonded over a love of literature, 80s British ska bands and film noir. 

Maya was the first person Armie came out to, and they stayed up late many nights swooning over crushes and commiserating over break-ups. When he finally worked up the courage to tell his evangelical Christian parents he was gay — a disastrous encounter that devolved into a shouting match and ended in tears — she was there to soothe his fractured heart.  

After graduation, they moved together to New York where Maya enrolled in the law school at NYU and Armie pursued a master’s degree in journalism. 

Over heaping plates of spicy rice noodles studded with tofu and bok choy, Maya updates Armie on the racial discrimination case her employer, the Legal Aid Society, is building against the Brooklyn District Attorney’s office. She can tell he’s not really listening though, which is unlike him.

Maya rests her chopsticks on the edge of her plate. “What’s going on, Armie? You seem a little distracted.”

“Hmm? Oh, nothing.” 

“Simon’s cheating ass didn’t text you again did he? I swear, if he doesn’t leave you the fuck alone I’m gonna —” 

“No, no, I think he finally realized that I’m done this time,” he grins at her protectiveness.

“It’s, uh, work actually.” Armie drains his wineglass, tops off Maya’s and pours himself a refill. Nervously, he recounts his conversation with Lauren and the failed coffee shop stakeout. The longer he talks, the higher her eyebrows rise.

When he finishes, Armie shifts uncomfortably under her stare. 

“So, you’re going to invade this poor kid’s privacy to show that Hollywood is what, full of professed liberals who still don’t believe audiences will accept a gay leading man? Seriously, Armie? That’s not exactly breaking news.”

Armie’s face burns with shame. He knows Maya is right, this story is a terrible idea. What the fuck is he doing? 

“OK, I know it sounds bad —“ 

“Yeah, that’s because it _is_ bad,” Maya interjects. 

“— but look at it this way,” Armie plows ahead. “We know sham relationships took an emotional toll on Tab Hunter, Rock Hudson and other old-school gay actors who were forced to stay in the closet, right? And it’s 20-fucking-18, same-sex marriage is legal and this shit is still happening!” 

He’s puffed up with righteous indignation now. “If Chalamet is gay and he’s dating this woman to further his career, well I can’t imagine he’s happy about it. I’m sure I can convince Lauren that we can run the larger story she wants, which I do believe is important, without the gossipy bit about the kid’s personal life. Who knows, maybe he’ll agree to be an anonymous source.” 

Armie is grasping at straws and they both know it. 

“Obviously, I agree this is bullshit,” Maya says. “No one should have to hide or deny who they are for a job. And those same industry executives who are so sure gay actors aren’t bankable also swore a movie featuring an all-black cast or a female superhero wouldn’t sell overseas. Then Wonder Woman and Black Panther kicked ass at the box office, so what the fuck do they know, right?” She smiles warmly at him. 

“I’m just … worried about your tactics. Are you really going to try and befriend this kid and get him to trust you without disclosing that you’re a reporter?” 

Armie shrugs and twists his napkin around a finger. 

“You are wading into muddy ethical waters, my friend. Be careful.” 

* * * *

Armie is sitting up in bed watching videos of interviews Chalamet did when he was promoting Call Me by Your Name. Some of the questions are _super_ cringey, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find that the kid is articulate, intelligent, humble and funny. To no avail, Armie tries to ignore the other adjectives that come to mind — adorable, gorgeous, delicate, sexy.

He closes his eyes and imagines sucking on that plump bottom lip, tracing his tongue over the moles on that elegant neck. _Calm the fuck down, Hammer._ This assignment is messy enough, the last thing he needs is to become the biggest cliché in journalism by sleeping with a source. 

Armie thinks maybe he should try dating again; after all, it’s been six months since he ended things with Simon. Maya says he’s wasting his precious post-graduate “free fuck” years — the time to try out different types of romantic entanglements before getting serious about settling down, having kids and buying a brownstone in Park Slope. 

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand. 

 **Armie:** Hey, you awake? 

 **Justin:** How many times do I have to tell you Hammer, you’re not my type. 

 **Armie:** Fuck off, you wish. 

 **Justin:** 😘 What’s up?

 **Armie:** Is your friend Dev still single? 

 **Justin:** Armand, are you finally ready to dust off the lube and end your self-imposed sexual exile?

 **Armie:** Forget I asked. 

 **Justin:** Wait, I’m sorry! Yes, he’s single. And he asked about you _again_ last week. 

 **Armie:** Give him my number? 

 **Justin:** Consider it done. And in all seriousness Armie, he’s a cool guy — smart, funny, sweet — I think he’ll be good for you. 

 **Armie:** Thanks, buddy.

* * * *

The following morning, Armie is sipping an Americano and scrolling through his Twitter feed when the young actor walks through Mud’s door. Several things happen at once: 

  1. He realizes the videos don’t do the kid justice, he’s the most beautiful man— no make that person — Armie has ever seen; 
  2. His plan to sit back and observe goes right out the window and Armie desperately searches his memory for a romcom coffee shop “meet cute” he can reenact in the next five minutes;
  3. Timothée Chalamet places his order and when he looks up, his eyes lock with Armie’s. Neither one of them looks away. 



**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tweaking the timeline slightly so that Tim filmed The King in the spring rather than the summer. Thanks to everyone who has read this and left comments. I truly appreciate your feedback!


	3. Public lies, private lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Armie have a not-so-close encounter.

Tim is happy to be back on his home turf after a week in Los Angeles meeting with producers and studio executives. 

After the whirlwind awards season— during which he picked up enough glittering hardware to fill a couple of shelves at his parents' apartment — Tim was in Europe throughout the spring shooting a historical drama, so he hasn’t spent much time in New York this year.

He’s looking forward to having a few days off to reconnect with family and friends before he starts rehearsals for the Broadway play he’s doing in the fall. He plays a disaffected young man who falls under the sway of a charismatic white nationalist. He’s never quite had a role like this before — the character is hateful, vile and, on the surface at least, entirely unsympathetic.

Tim is eager to return to the stage and excited for the acting challenge, but he’s also a little anxious about the prospect of immersing himself in such a dark and ugly headspace for several months. Today though, with the sun warming his skin and Kid Cudi pumping through his headphones, Tim is feeling good. 

It’s just after 11 a.m. when he pops into his favorite coffee shop for a cool beverage. 

“Hi, Tim. How was your trip to LA?” one of the baristas with whom he’s friendly asks.

“Cassie, hey. Ah, it was good. Glad to be home though,” he smiles as he swipes his ATM card. Drumming his fingers absentmindedly against his thigh, Tim’s gaze sweeps over the shop and lands on a man with broad shoulders, sparkling blue eyes and a face fit for a magazine cover. 

Tim is utterly mesmerized. He fights the urge to glance over his shoulder to see if there’s a beautiful woman in line behind him because, he thinks, there is no fucking way this hot as fuck guy is looking at him.

Then the dude flashes a brilliant smile and it’s a good thing there’s a counter Tim can lean against when his knees suddenly decide they’ve had just about enough of holding him upright. _Oh, he’s definitely looking at me_. Tim’s tongue sweeps across his bottom lip and he’s summoning the nerve to speak when an arm slips around his waist. 

“Bonjour! Have you been waiting long?” 

Tim turns his head to find Lily beaming up at him. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek and Tim hopes she believes the blush creeping up his neck is a response to her and not because she nearly caught him eye-fucking a gorgeous stranger. 

“Uh, no, I just ordered actually. Got you your usual,” he says over the deafening thrum of his heartbeat. Prickly heat spreads across his body and his T-shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin where her arm is pressing against his lower back. 

Cassie hands them their drinks, and while Lily is distracted, Tim shoots a furtive glance at the hot guy. His eyes are still trained on Tim but now they’re clouded with doubt. Tim’s stomach drops. 

Critics and directors alike gush about his preternatural talent, especially the way emotions play out on his face like vibrant paints splashed across a blank canvas. Tim, they say, conveys more with a look than actors with twice his experience do with pages of dialogue.

At the moment, Tim is drawing on every shred of skill he has and he fucking prays that his expression is saying: _‘I know how this looks, but you weren’t wrong. I felt it too. I’ll be back tomorrow, alone. Will you meet me?’_

And then Lily is looping her arm through his and leading him out the door. 

* * * *

Standing on the corner waiting to cross Second Avenue, Tim pretends not to see the guy across the street pointing the long-lens camera at them. Instinctively, his lips stretch into a smile that looks more like a grimace, and he tries to focus on the story Lily is telling about a narrowly averted runway disaster at the Chanel event she attended in Paris. 

Accustomed to being hounded by paparazzi since she was a child, Lily is better at the PR game than Tim. She giggles coquettishly; takes his hand and entwines their fingers; playfully swipes his baseball cap; and rests her head on his shoulder. To the casual observer, he thinks, they probably look like a young couple in the first flush of summer love. 

Under other circumstances, Tim would enjoy hanging out with Lily. She’s the only person, other than his family members, with whom he can speak French, she’s funny and they both like movies, hip-hop and smoking weed. But pretending to date her is emotionally exhausting. 

They spend a couple of hours putting on a show for the photographer who’s trailing them— including lunch seated at a table in the front window of an Italian place where Tim politely rebuffs her attempt to feed him a forkful of her pasta — and part ways in time for him to meet with his manager, Brian. 

After going over Tim’s fall schedule which, in addition to the play, includes an appearance at the Toronto International Film Festival and promo for his new film, Beautiful Boy, Brian sits back and observes his young client, who seems restless today. 

“So, how’s Lily?” he asks carefully. 

“She’s good, she got back from Paris on Monday. Some Chanel thing,” Tim shrugs, running a fingertip over the embossed logo on his black Adidas high-tops.  

“You saw her today then?” 

“Yes, Brian,” he smirks. “As directed, we took a leisurely stroll around the East Village in full view of a rather conspicuous photographer.” 

Brian makes a satisfied sound.

Tim’s thoughts drift again to the guy at Mud —the way his shirtsleeves stretched tight across his biceps, the way his long legs barely fit under the tiny cafe table, the way his stunning blue eyes bored into his own. 

He bites his lip. “Look, I know you and Nicole thought I needed to be seen with a girlfriend for professional reasons or whatever. But the meetings in LA went well, right? So do I really have to keep this up?” 

“Tim, I thought we agreed —“

“I know,” he interrupts. “But we already locked down Dune and Little Women, so I was thinking we could, maybe, drop the Lily thing? Or put it on hiatus at least, until it’s time to promote The King?” 

His eyes are wide and hopeful and Brian hates to do this, but Tim needs to know exactly what kind of attitude he’s up against in the industry.

Brian turns to his laptop and quickly pulls up the article that still gives him nightmares. “Listen to this quote from a recent story about you:  

“ _He’s pretty fey,” says one veteran studio hand and Academy voter in his 60s. “He might be the next Anthony Perkins, rather than the next Leo.”_

Tim winces and slumps down in his seat. 

“The Academy membership is becoming younger and more diverse, which is a good thing. I certainly think you’ll benefit from those changes when it comes to future Oscar nominations and possible wins,” Brian says. 

“But the people who make the decisions about which projects to bankroll and whom to cast are still mostly older white guys and some of them still hold some pretty backward beliefs about masculinity,” he pauses. “And sexuality.  

“You won’t have to do this forever, Tim. I promise. But for now, until you’re more established, it’s really for the best that people believe you’re straight.”

Tim nods. He decides he’ll play along publicly. But in private … well, if that guy is at Mud in the morning ( _God, I hope he’s there_ ) then all fucking bets are off. 

* * * *

Armie can hardly sit still. His left leg is bouncing as he takes a long pull on his beer and runs his hand through his hair. Every few minutes he’s up and pacing the length of the hallway staring at his phone. He decides against texting Maya again so he won't alarm her. But Armie’s pretty sure he’s going to have a panic attack if she doesn’t get home soon. 

When he finally hears her key turning in the lock he dashes over and throws the front door open. Maya gasps and clutches her chest. “Jesus Armie!”

“Sorry, sorry I should have warned you,” he says, grasping her arm and tugging her into the narrow foyer. He steers her to the living room and practically pushes her down on the sofa.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she huffs glaring up at him.

He sits heavily on the other end of the couch and turns toward her looking stricken.

“I think I’m in trouble May,” Armie croaks.

Her annoyance evaporates and she scoots closer to him.

“OK, calm down and tell me what’s going on,” Maya says softly, taking Armie's right hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure out how to handle it.” 

Armie sucks in a shuddering breath. “I saw Timothée Chalamet at the coffee shop today.” 

She nods encouragingly. 

“He’s amazing.” Armie was surprised at how tall the kid is and how cute he looked in the fluffy bowl cut he got to play Henry V. _And when he licked his lip and sucked it between his teeth, fuck._ “So fucking beautiful and smart, not to mention, talented.” 

“What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t really have a chance to say anything.” 

“You didn’t talk to him?”

“Not exactly…” Armie blushes, realizing Maya probably thinks he sounds like an idiot.

She stares at him blankly. 

“We didn’t exchange words, per se. But we shared a deeply meaningful look. Then his supposed girlfriend showed up,” he rolls his eyes.

“A deeply meaningful look …” she repeats slowly. Maya closes her eyes and lets her head drop back against the wall. “For fucks sake, Armie.”

Armie’s phone vibrates loudly against the coffee table. He glances at the screen and sees a text from an unknown number. 

 **Dev:** Hey Armie, it’s Justin’s friend, Dev. How are you?

 **Armie:** Hi, I’m good. You? 

 **Dev:** I can’t complain. I was thinking if you’re free Friday after work, maybe we could meet for a drink?

Armie glances at Maya, who is peering over his shoulder. “Say yes!”

 **Armie:** I’d like that. 

 **Dev:** Cool. Let’s confirm time and place on Friday.

 **Armie:** OK, looking forward to seeing you. 

He sets his phone back on the table and avoids making eye contact with Maya. She studies his profile and smiles fondly at her best friend. 

“Come on,” she nudges him with her shoulder and stands. “Tell me more about this ‘meaningful look’ while we make dinner.” 

Armie grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I pulled the quote from the Hollywood studio exec from an October Vulture article about Tim. In case you haven't read it, here's the link:  
> https://www.vulture.com/2018/10/timothe-chalamet-is-the-perfect-movie-star-for-2018.html
> 
> The bit about Tim conveying more with a look than other actors do with dialogue is a paraphrase of another quote I read somewhere, but I can't recall who said it. But it's true isn't it?


	4. Showmance 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie is schooled in the ways of PR relationships. Tim is anxious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclaimer: I have no inside knowledge about how fake celebrity relationships work. I drew on what I've read and my own assumptions for Tara's showmance lesson. I'm sure most of you are familiar with most of this, but Armie was naive.

Rising earlier than usual to get ready for his breakfast meeting with Tara, Armie showers, shaves the stubble he had let grow in over the past two days and puts on slim-fitting navy chinos, a denim shirt and brown leather boots. 

When he checks his phone on his way out the front door he sees a Google alert: “Timothée Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp pack on the PDA in NYC outing.”

Armie clicks on the link. _Fuck me._

* * * *

Tara and her husband, a hedge fund manager, live in an elegant pre-war building on the Upper West Side. Armie greets the doorman and takes in the lavish decor as he crosses the spacious lobby. On the ride up to the 18th floor, he muses that this is the kind of place his parents would want him to live in with a wife like Tara — pretty, well-educated and cultured. He frowns at his reflection in the mirror on the rear wall of the elevator and wonders if they will ever be proud of him for who he is, rather than lamenting that he isn’t who they wanted him to be.

“Armie, good morning,” Tara greets him warmly with a quick hug. She’s wearing a coral shirtwaist dress and her raven hair is pulled back loosely in a ponytail. Armie catches a whiff of jasmine as she pulls away.  

“Hi, Tara. Thanks for inviting me.”

She closes the door and leads Armie down a short hallway, her heels clicking on the polished hardwood floors, and into a bright kitchen where a platter of pastries, a crystal bowl of fruit salad and a carafe of fresh-squeezed orange juice sit on the marble countertop.

“Please, help yourself. Would you like coffee?” she asks, reaching for a French press. 

“Yes, thanks. Tara this looks great. You really didn’t have to go to so much trouble though,” Armie says, placing a croissant and a heaping spoonful of fruit salad on a dessert plate.  

“I assure you, it was no trouble at all.” 

They fix their coffee and move to the dining room where a set of glass doors is open to a terrace overlooking the lush greenery in Central Park. 

“So tell me,” Tara says once they’re seated comfortably at a rectangular walnut table. “Why did you decide to delve into the seamy world of fake celebrity relationships?”

Armie chuckles. “Actually, it was my editor’s idea. I thought it was kind of ridiculous, but given your reaction, now I’m thinking maybe she was on to something.” He purposely leaves out the part about exposing Chalamet and his maybe-real-maybe-not-girlfriend.

“Sorry about that. I know I sounded paranoid,” she says, smiling sheepishly. 

He shrugs and takes a bite of a croissant, savoring its buttery flakiness.

“Fake relationships are a dirty, open secret in Hollywood. Everyone in the industry knows they happen, including the tabloids that breathlessly report the latest celebrity hook-up. It’s strictly verboten to acknowledge publicly that this goes on, though. That’s why I can’t go on the record, I’d be blacklisted.” 

“Do you mind if I record our conversation with the understanding that everything you say is on background?”

“Sure, that’s fine.” 

Armie pulls out his phone, opens the voice recorder app and sets it on the table between them. 

“So, where should we start?” he asks. 

“Basically, celebrities use fake relationships to generate publicity— either for themselves or for a project — or to hide their sexuality; and sometimes for both reasons at the same time,” Tara begins.

“But this is business. These arrangements aren’t made casually. The celebs sign contracts that detail how long the relationship will last, how often they will appear together in public on casual dates; as well as on the red carpet at award shows, movie premieres, industry parties and charity events. Sometimes, they’re also obligated to take vacations together. And if they have a significant other, they agree to keep them on the down-low for the duration of the contract.” 

Armie nods thoughtfully and jots down a few notes.

“Since social media is an important tool for personal branding and promotion, the celebs also have to follow each other on Instagram and Twitter and regularly like each other’s posts,” Tara explains. “In some cases, their close friends and family members also follow the fake partner to add another layer of authenticity to the relationship.”

“What about the photos that appear in the tabloids and on gossip sites? Are they always staged?” Armie asks, thinking again of his green-eyed subject.  

“Ah, the infamous pap walk!” Tara smirks. “When they want to be seen they go to established paparazzi haunts — places like The Palm and Spago restaurants in Beverly Hills — or they arrange to have a photographer follow them around and snap ‘candid’ shots.” 

Armie’s head is swimming. He really had no idea showmances were this complex and scripted. 

“Now, you’re probably wondering if there are clues that a celebrity couple may not be on the up-and-up? Why, yes there are!” 

Armie grins, noting that as reluctant as Tara was to have this conversation, she certainly seems to have warmed up to the topic.

“Look for obviously set up photos — was the couple photographed somewhere off the beaten path where paps absolutely don’t hang out, like a dude ranch in Montana; or in a private location they wouldn’t have access to without permission? The relationship may be fake. They haven’t been seen together in a while and suddenly there are several days of sightings that the paps just happen to be in a position to document? They engage in awkward or over-the-top PDA? Yeah, it could be a sham. 

“Timing can also be a tip-off. It may not be just the random luck of the universe when high-profile romances begin shortly before a celeb has a film or album coming out or at the start of awards season in Hollywood.

“Study their body language and facial expressions, too. Just because they’re actors, it doesn’t mean they can convincingly sell a phony affair. Remember that photo of Taylor Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal a few years ago when they were allegedly dating for, like, five minutes?” Tara asks, hazel eyes twinkling gleefully.  

“Taylor deserved an Oscar for her performance, while poor Jake looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.” 

Armie snorts. He might have had a small crush on Gyllenhaal at the time and he remembers seeing that picture and wondering what the fuck _that_ was all about. 

“What about co-stars?” 

“Hmm, that can be tricky. Sometimes, actors really do fall in love while they’re filming,” she shrugs. “Keep in mind, though, that an on-set romance is a press-friendly narrative studios can use to promote a movie, as long as infidelity isn’t a factor.”

Tara sips her orange juice and pops a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth. 

“Oh, I almost forgot. You probably already know this, but if a tabloid story includes an anonymous quote describing what the couple did on a date, but there’s no photographic proof, it probably came from the celeb’s rep.” 

Armie shakes his head in disbelief. "Have you arranged fake relationships for any of your clients?"

Tara nods.

“Well, this certainly has been eye opening. I think I’ve been way too credulous about celebrity romances. Thanks again for your help, Tara.” He slides his notebook into his bag and reaches for his phone. “By the way, have any new fake couples debuted recently?” 

“Sorry, Armie. I have my suspicions, but I can’t answer that one, not even off the record,” Tara says with a coy smile.

“No problem, I had to ask.”

“I would expect nothing less from you.” 

Armie can’t wait to pore over the latest paparazzi shots of Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp to see if they tick any boxes on Tara’s phony couple check-list. He’s starting to have his suspicions, too.

“I’ll leave you with a last anecdote about Taylor, who plays the PR relationship game often, although not always skillfully.” Tara rises from her chair and stacks their plates, napkins and coffee cups on a stainless steel serving tray. 

“When she dated,” she rolls her eyes and makes quotation marks with her fingers,“Tom Hiddleston, he infamously wore an ‘I ❤️T.S.’ tank top while frolicking with her in the surf,” she shudders at the memory. 

“That shameful episode inspired a saying amongst publicists, ‘Never go full Hiddleston.’”

* * * *

When Tim arrives at Mud Cofeee, his heart is thudding wildly and he’s a little short of breath. He pauses to settle his nerves before going inside. _Get a grip Timmy, he’s probably not even here._

He steps in line and looks around surreptitiously, but doesn’t see the hot guy. Tim checks the time on his phone — it's 9:30 a.m. — and decides he’ll wait an hour to see if he shows up. 

He finds a table, pulls his New York Yankees cap down low, puts his headphones on and starts scrolling through Instagram.

* * * *

It’s about half-past nine when Armie emerges from Tara’s building. He shoots Lauren a quick text to let her know he’s leaving a meeting with a source and heading to Mud Coffee to look for Chalamet. 

He slips his phone back in his pocket and jogs down the stairs into the subway station.

* * * *

Tim is on his second coffee and growing fidgety. He tired of Instagram and now he’s trying to read an article about children who have been separated from their parents at the southern border, but his eyes keep drifting to the front door. 

The fourth time he looks up within the span of about two minutes, the hot guy is waiting to order. 

Armie spots Chalamet immediately and grins when the kid looks away as soon as their eyes meet. _He’s not so bold today. Cute._

“Time to go big or go home, Hammer,” he mutters. Armie grips the handle of his mug and strides over to the younger man’s table. 

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but it appears there aren’t any other available seats,” he smiles, resting his hand on the back of the chair across from Tim. “Do you mind if I join you?”

With his mouth slightly open, Tim tips his head back and stares up at Armie. _Fuck, he's really tall and I was not prepared for his voice._

“Uh, yeah,” Tim squeaks. He clears his throat. “Please, have a seat.”

“Thanks,” Armie pulls out the chair and sits. “I’m Armie,” he says, engulfing Tim’s slender hand in his own. 

“Armie?” 

“Short for Armand,” he grimaces. “Family name. I know, it’s terribly pretentious.” 

Tim’s face splits into a toothy grin. “No more pretentious than Timothée. You can call me Tim. Or Timmy.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it really possible to get from the Upper West Side to the East Village via subway in less than an hour? I don't live in NYC so I have no idea! Let's just pretend. 
> 
> In the next chapter, Tim and Armie finally talk.
> 
> Thanks for all the great comments!


	5. Pastries and Pizza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie and Tim bond over carbs.

Because Armie is stalling, he’s practically chugging his latte, scalding the roof of his mouth and his tongue in the process.

By now, he’s seen dozens of photos of Chalamet — of Tim that is, Timmy — ranging from professional magazine shoots to casual selfies with fans. So, Armie thought he was absolutely, fully aware of how good-looking the kid is. Sitting across from him, though, Armie realizes he had no fucking clue. 

Up close, Tim is angelic and ethereally beautiful. The smattering of freckles across his nose and the sexy moles near his lips lend him an aura of innocence and sensuality that Armie never knew could be so intoxicating. 

He’s undoubtedly boyish, but at the same time the angular cut of his cheekbones and the squareness of his jaw mark him as a grown man. 

Armie is not sure how long he’s been gawping until he notices that Tim is avoiding his gaze and squirming as the silence grows between them. Armie knows he has to say something before he scares him away. 

“Would you like a croissant?” he blurts out. “Or maybe a Danish?”

Tim looks up, brow furrowed in confusion. 

Armie knows what he’s about to do could go horribly wrong, but he’s all in at this point. _Jesus, I hope he doesn’t think I’m a fucking weirdo._

“I had breakfast with a friend and there were all these left-over pastries,” he says, rummaging through his messenger bag. “She made me take them to share with my roommate, but you can have one if you’re hungry.” 

Tim’s gaze lands on the plastic container in Armie’s hand, then travels back up to his face. 

“I think they frown on people bringing in outside food here, Armie. Kinda like at the movie theater,” he laughs.

Armie leans across the small table and whispers conspiratorially, “I won’t tell if you won’t. It will be our little secret.” 

Tim shudders and tries to ignore the way the huskiness of Armie’s sinfully deep baritone makes his stomach clench. 

He glances slyly over at the baristas who are busy taking orders and making drinks. “OK. Let’s see what you’ve got there,” he arches an eyebrow. 

Armie pulls off the lid and slides the container across the table to Tim, who chooses a bear claw. 

“Thanks for sharing,” he says, biting into the pastry. 

“You’re very welcome.” Armie takes a cheese Danish and returns the rest to his bag. They munch in silence for a moment.

Tim swallows and brushes a few crumbs from his lips. “So Armie, what do you do when you’re not smuggling baked goods into coffee shops?” he smirks.

Part of him wants to be truthful. But he knows that telling Tim he’s a reporter will end this conversation and any chance he has to get to know him. The irony is not lost on Armie that he is lying now to have a shot at earning Tim’s trust in the future. He just hopes this doesn’t blow up in his face.  

“I’m a freelance graphic designer,” he smoothly recites his prepared cover story. “What about you?” 

Despite his Oscar nomination and starring roles in two of the most celebrated and beloved indie films in recent years, Tim never assumes people know who he is. 

“I’m an actor,” he replies without elaborating.

Armie sizes him up. _Stunning and modest? This kid is too fucking much._

“Don’t get me wrong, Gary Oldman went through an amazing physical transformation to play Churchill and he was good. But you were fucking robbed at the Oscars,” Armie says, pointing a finger at him.  

“You recognized me?”

“I could never forget a face like yours,” he declares without thinking. 

Tim’s eyes widen and for a second Armie regrets saying it. But then he sees the younger man’s cheeks color and he thinks that maybe Tim is flattered; at any rate, it doesn’t appear that Armie’s comment has made him uncomfortable.

“Thanks, but I never expected to win,” Tim says, reaching up to push his hair behind his right ear. He tucks the compliment away to take out, turn over carefully and examine from all angles later when he’s alone. “So, what are the best movies you’ve seen this year?”

“Black Panther, obviously.”

“Yes! Oh man, Ryan Coogler is a fucking genius,” Tim chimes in, bouncing excitedly in his seat.

Armie chuckles at his enthusiasm. 

“I watch a lot of documentaries and I really enjoyed RBG and Won’t You be my Neighbor. And I’m looking forward to another one called Minding the Gap, that I think comes out next month.” 

Tim nods approvingly at his choices. 

“I spent the spring in Europe shooting a Netflix movie about Henry V so I haven’t had a chance to see many films this year,” he says. “But there are so many fall releases I want to see like Creed II, The Favourite, Bohemian Rhapsody, Cold War, Mary Queen of Scots, If Beale Street Could Talk,” Tim ticks them off on his slim fingers. 

“Yep, I want to see most of those, too. I also can’t wait for BlacKkKlansman and Blindspotting, which is set in Oakland, where I lived when I was in college,” Armie adds.

“Did you go to Berkeley?”

“Yeah. I’m from LA, though. Where did you grow up?”

“Right here in the city," Tim says. "What brought you to New York?” 

“My best friend got into NYU law school and I kind of followed her since I always wanted to live here.” 

_That’s two lies so far, Hammer. Pace yourself._

“Did you go to college?” he asks. 

“Uh, I went to Columbia for a year,” Tim rubs the back of his neck. “But then I got a part in Interstellar and I thought that was going to be my big break, so I dropped out. Turns out it wasn’t.” 

“So you were kind of like a promising college athlete who leaves school early to enter the draft, huh?” 

Tim grins. “Yeah, only with even _less_ job security.” 

Now that his nervousness has subsided, he allows himself to take a good look at Armie and notices his deep dimples and the fine lines that form at the corners of his eyes when he laughs. He spies a tuft of chest hair at the base of his throat peeking out from where the top button of his denim shirt is undone. _He is so gorgeous._

“So, what was your major?”

“English literature. I’ve loved reading since I was a kid when I would escape into books whenever things got … uncomfortable at home.”

Tim wonders what that means, but decides not to pry. 

“So, you must have read a lot of Shakespeare?” 

“My fair share,” Armie nods. 

“Which plays are your favorites?” 

“Well, no offense Tim, but Henry V doesn’t even rank among my top ten,” he teases.

“You wound me my liege,” Tim says in his best British accent, hand placed dramatically over his heart and head bowed. 

Armie laughs. “OK, in no particular order — Macbeth, Othello, Much Ado About Nothing, King Lear, Love’s Labour's Lost, As You Like It, The Tempest and Romeo and Juliet, because I’m a sucker for a tragic romance. Of the histories, the only one I really like is Richard III.” 

“A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse!” Tim cries.

Armie narrows his eyes suspiciously,“Tim, have you actually read it or do you just know the most famous line in the play?”

“Hey, I studied it in high school!” he huffs. “That’s not one you hear often though; why do you like it?” 

“I realize it’s kind of an odd choice. I mean, Richard is basically a ruthless monster without a conscience who murders and manipulates his way onto the throne, but I guess I always felt a bit sorry for him. Like, maybe if he hadn’t been physically disabled and treated as an outcast he wouldn’t have turned out to be such a horrible human being.” 

Tim stares at him in awe. 

“I know, I know,” Armie shrugs. “I’m a naive sap.” 

“I don’t think you’re sappy. I think you’re compassionate and capable of empathy, a quality that’s in short supply these days.” 

Armie reddens slightly and looks down at his hands. 

Tim stands abruptly. “I’m thirsty. Can I get you anything?”  

“Um, sure. I’ll take an ice tea, thanks.” Armie tries to hand him a ten-dollar bill but he just waves it away. 

“It’s on me. I owe you for the contraband bear claw.” 

When Tim leaves the table, Armie feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. 

 **Justin:** Hey where are you? Are you coming in to the office today? 

 **Armie:** I’m at a cafe with Timothée Chalamet. 

 **Justin:** WITH him as in actually talking to him?! 😳

 **Armie:** Yep, we’re having coffee and shooting the shit. 

 **Justin:** OMG! Tell me, is he as pretty in person as he is onscreen? 

 **Armie:** Prettier. 😍 Also funny and sweet. 

 **Justin:** You lucky bastard. 

 **Armie:** This part of Lauren’s bullshit assignment has turned out to not be so bad. 

 **Justin:** Did you tell him you’re a reporter? 

 **Armie:** No, I lied. And yes, I’m 95 percent sure that will come back to bite me in the ass. 

 **Justin:** Jesus, Armie. 

 **Armie:** I know, I’m pretty much fucked. But he wouldn’t talk to me if he knew what I do for a living!

 **Justin:** Dude, seriously, you need to be careful. 

 **Armie:** Yeah, that’s the same thing Maya said. 

* * * *

Tim hands Armie his drink. “So I was thinking about grabbing a slice at a place a few blocks over. Do you wanna come? Do you eat pizza?” 

“Do I eat pizza?” Armie sputters. “What kind of question is that? Who doesn’t eat pizza?” 

“Well, you are from California,” Tim shrugs. “I thought you might be vegetarian or vegan or something.” 

“Hey, my best friend is vegan _Timothée —_ and yes, she eats pizza — so no smartass remarks.” 

“No shade intended, _Armand_ ,” says Tim, holding his hands up and laughing. “So, you in?” 

“Lead the way.” 

* * * *

They’re sitting on a park bench devouring huge, greasy slices of pizza — cheese for Tim and pepperoni for Armie — people watching and talking about books, having moved on from music. 

That discussion convinced Armie that even though he writes about pop culture for a living, he is woefully out of the loop when it comes to the current state of hip hop. He also worries that his impassioned lobbying on behalf of British ska — he _could_ _not_ believe Tim had never heard of The Specials or The English Beat — may have marked him as tragically uncool in the younger man’s eyes. 

“Are you reading anything right now?” Armie asks, guzzling the remainder of his ice tea. 

“Yeah, a new biography of Ulysses S. Grant. I’m really into the Civil War and Reconstruction era.” 

Armie nearly chokes. “Seriously? I love that period of US history, too. I haven’t started reading that biography yet, but I bought it a while ago.” 

They stare at each other. Tim clears his throat and takes a deep breath. Normally he wouldn’t go out on a limb like this. He knows it’s risky. But he feels really comfortable with Armie — he’s funny, smart and easy to talk to. And of course he’s still hot as fuck. Even hotter now that he’s had an opportunity to get to know him a little. _Is he gay though? I can’t take that one comment as confirmation_.

“Look, a couple of my friends are doing a show at a club in Hell’s Kitchen tomorrow night. I know you said you don’t really follow hip hop, but would you maybe like to come and hang out with us? It will be pretty chill. I can put your name on the list.”  

Suddenly, warmth spreads over Armie and he knows the feeling isn’t coming from the punishing New York summer sun. 

“Yeah,” he says smiling. “That sounds like fun.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never mentioned how old Armie is in this story, but he's 26 and turning 27 in August (the month after the story begins) on the real Armie's birthday. He frequently calls Tim a "kid" even though he's only four years older.


	6. Ghost of Thanksgiving Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie realizes he's overextended and Tim seeks a second opinion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm worried that my use of past tense may be a tad wonky in this chapter. If so, I apologize and it's all on me.

During his first year in New York, Armie had little success with dating. His romantic life was limited to a handful of disappointing Tinder dates that rarely merited a second meeting and a few Grindr hook-ups when he was desperate to get off.

Then Simon had walked into his life, and for the first time since his turbulent adolescence when he had finally accepted his sexuality and vowed to hide it from everyone he knew, especially his traditional parents, Armie was optimistic about finding lasting love. 

Three years ago, Armie and Simon met at a ‘Friendsgiving' celebration thrown by a few of Maya’s law school classmates who lived in a converted warehouse in the Village. Armie had been standing at the makeshift bar holding a vodka tonic and pouring Maya a glass of red wine when Simon squeezed in beside him to grab a beer, jostling his arm and splashing wine across the table. Simon had grabbed a handful of napkins to sop up the mess and looked over his shoulder at him, apologizing profusely. 

Armie had laughed when he got a good look at the gaudy sequined turkey on Simon’s orange sweater. Later, when they had found a secluded corner near a window to smoke, Simon explained sheepishly that although he was in the second year of his campaign to make ugly Thanksgiving sweaters a thing, he was clearly failing since he was the only partygoer wearing one. Armie found him charming and witty. They had talked for hours and exchanged numbers at the end of the night.

A software engineer at Google, Simon was fine-boned with wavy brown hair, olive skin and pale blue eyes. They had quickly become a couple and spent time together cooking, visiting museums, going to the theater and discussing politics and art. The sex was also the best Armie had ever had — Simon made him feel safe and desired enough to explore his long-suppressed dominant side in the bedroom. 

A year into the relationship, Armie was blissfully happy and deeply in love. He told Maya that although he wasn’t ready for marriage yet, he thought Simon was the one. The couple spent Thanksgiving — wearing tacky sweaters — in Boston with Simon’s family, who opened their home and their hearts to Armie, giving him a glimpse of what it's like when parents love and accept their children unconditionally. 

But a few months after their anniversary, Simon had started breaking dates, claiming he had to work late; and when they were together, he was less attentive. Finally, a suggestive comment on one of Simon’s Instagram posts brought the situation to a head and prompted a strained conversation during which he confessed he had cheated. He wept, pleaded for forgiveness and promised never to stray again. Armie loved him and wanted to believe, so he took him back. Twice. 

After the second time, he hung on for another year, but when the familiar pattern of cancelled plans and secretive behavior began again six months ago, Armie finally ended it for good. He was shattered. He spent the weekend after the break-up in bed crying and binge-watching Jane the Virgin with Maya, who had climbed in beside him with a seemingly endless supply of junk food, a fifth of expensive Scotch and two boxes of tissue, their orange tabby, Pugsley, curled up between them.

Despite Maya’s support and Justin’s cajoling, Armie hadn’t felt emotionally ready to date, to open up his battered heart. Now, Timothée Chalamet, of all fucking people, someone with whom he absolutely _cannot_ get romantically involved for several good reasons, is making him want to try again and Armie is both terrified and excited. 

* * * *

Before Armie has a chance to sit, his desk phone is ringing — the caller ID displays Lauren’s name. _Damn, could she get off my ass?_

“Hey, Lauren,” he tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Armie, did you have more success today?” 

“Yeah, Chalamet was at the coffee shop and —"

She cuts him off. “I want to hear all about it. Come to my office.”

Armie reluctantly makes his way over, frowning as he catches Justin’s eye.

“Sit,” she points at an upholstered chair across from her desk. “So, what do we know?’ she asks, eyeing him expectantly.

“As I was saying, he was there and we talked for a while. Mostly about random stuff — books, movies, music. A little bit about our backgrounds.” 

“Did he mention the girlfriend?” Lauren sneers. 

“She didn’t come up.” 

“Armie,” she rolls her eyes like she can’t believe she has to deal with such incompetence,“you didn’t ask?”

“That would have been suspicious, don’t you think? Who asks someone they just met about a significant other unless they’re hitting on them? Who asks a _celebrity_ something that personal unless they’re fishing for gossip to spread on social media or sell to the tabloids?” Armie spits out, his jaw clenched. 

“Look Lauren, he’s not going to confess that his relationship is a sham to a complete stranger after hanging out for a couple of hours. Tim is much too smart and savvy to do something so reckless.” 

“Oh, so you’re a ‘complete stranger,’ but it’s Tim now?” she says, with a knowing smirk.

“Chalamet,” Armie quickly corrects himself, cringing a little. “My point is, if you want me to get him to open up, I’ll have to win his trust and that’s not going to happen overnight.” 

She nods. “Fair enough. When are you seeing him again?” 

“Tomorrow.” Armie decides not to tell her he’s meeting Tim at a club. Before she can ask more questions he doesn’t want to answer, he throws out a distraction. “Have you seen the latest paparazzi photos of Chalamet and Depp?” 

“Yep. Still looks fake as fuck,” Lauren says matter-of-factly. 

“Right. Well, a source gave me a kind of showmance primer including a run-down of the signs to look for, so I’m going to review all the photos and stories about them I can find in light of that intel and see if we can come up with something more concrete than a gut feeling.

“And on Tuesday I’m interviewing the director of the Tab Hunter documentary. I hope he’ll provide important context about the sordid history of Hollywood forcing closeted actors into arranged relationships.” 

Lauren regards Armie thoughtfully, tapping a pen against her knee. She appears to reach a conclusion and rolls her chair forward under her desk. 

“OK, sounds like you’re making progress, Armie. I’ll give you time. Just keep me in the loop.” 

* * * *

Justin meets him in the kitchen. “Dude, what happened?”

Armie sighs heavily. “Lauren is being totally unrealistic about what she’s asked me to do. She actually scolded me for not asking Tim about the girlfriend! Like, what the fuck was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, hi I know we just met but I’ve been stalking you online and noticed that you and your girl seem to have zero chemistry. Are you just pretending to date her to improve your image?’” he rants, grabbing a bottled water from the refrigerator.

“Tim?” 

“Oh for fucks sake, not you too! Is that seriously all you got from what I just said? Yes, Tim. That’s his fucking name, that’s what he asked me to call him. Why is that such a big deal?”

Armie is flushed and breathing hard. He knows he’s being a dick. It’s not Justin’s fault he has to write a story he hates, that he’s trampling on his professional ethics to do so and flirting with disaster by indulging an attraction to a source. 

“Sorry, man.” Armie slumps against the counter and rubs a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t take my frustration out on you.”

“It’s cool. I know this assignment is stressing you out,” Justin says, waving off the apology. “What are you going to do next?” 

“Tim,” he cuts his eyes sideways at Justin, who grins, “invited me to see a couple of his friends do a show tomorrow night. I told him I’d go.”

“Aren’t you having drinks with Dev?”

Armie blanches. _Fuck._

“You forgot didn’t you? Jesus Armie, don’t do this to him. He’s a nice guy. Why did you even say yes if you were hung up on Chalamet?” 

“The fuck are you talking about?” Armie whispers angrily, looking over his shoulder to make sure none of their co-workers are in earshot. “I’m not hung up on … I just … it slipped my mind, OK? Dev and I are meeting right after work. The show won’t start until, like, 9 or later. I’ll have plenty of time to do both.” 

“So, a week ago you weren’t even ready to talk about dating again and now you’re fucking double booked?” 

“No, I’m not actually, because the thing with Tim isn’t a date, we’re just hanging out. Besides, it’s work.” 

“Sure Armie, keep telling yourself that,” Justin shakes his head and walks out. 

* * * *

Tim’s first kiss was like any other between inexperienced teenagers — awkward, embarrassing and slightly messy. Unlike his peers who eagerly pushed through the initial unpleasantness until they learned to skillfully use their tongues and lips, Tim almost gave up on kissing girls altogether, unsure if he actually liked them. 

Eventually, though, he came around, started to enjoy making out and landed a sweet, pretty girlfriend. But Tim also noticed how a guy in statistics wore his baggy jeans riding low on his narrow hips and how the dude in English kept licking his lips while he recited a poem in a smooth, deep voice. Tim would wrap his arms tighter around his girl and do his best to shake off those disquieting thoughts.

Everything was fine until his junior year when Rey Aguilar joined the stage crew, lending his artistic talent to designing sets for the fall musical. Rey was shorter than Tim, slight with curly black hair and wide brown eyes. Tim liked Rey’s high-pitched laugh and his penchant for singing show tunes while he painted. Frequently, the pair talked about video games and their favorite rappers over pizza after rehearsal.

One day, they were backstage stacking props when Rey pushed Tim gently up against a wall and kissed him. After a moment’s hesitation, Tim ardently returned the kiss. Within weeks, Tim came out to his parents and sister, who weren’t at all surprised to learn he was bisexual. He broke up with his girlfriend and dated Rey until the summer after graduation, when he moved to LA for college. 

Tim last had a boyfriend several years ago, during his brief stint at Columbia. He’s hooked up casually with guys — a hand job here, a blow job there — but nothing serious. He hasn’t had a _real_ girlfriend since high school; not that he hasn’t had offers, he just found that he wasn’t interested. At this point, Tim would say that although he still likes women, he’s more attracted, both physically and emotionally, to men. 

He’s been so busy the past few years — spending months at a time shooting in Europe and Los Angeles, and traveling the globe on the never-ending _Call Me by Your_ _Name_ press tour — that he wouldn’t have had time for a relationship, even if he met someone. Which he hadn’t. 

Excluding promo duties for _Beautiful Boy_ , he was going to be in New York through early fall for the play and then filming _Little Women_ in Boston, a little more than an hour away by plane. Now seems an opportune time to try dating, he thinks, especially while he has Lily as a cover.

For the third time since they parted ways in the park, Tim thinks about Armie and how much he enjoyed spending time with him. He picks up his phone.

 **Tim:** hey, can you talk? need some advice 

 **Matt:** Timo! I have a few minutes before my shift starts, shoot

 **Tim:** uh, I met a guy, but I’m not 100 percent sure he’s queer 

 **Matt:** How sure are you? 

 **Tim:** 70-75

 **Matt:** Evidence? 

 **Tim:** 1st time we saw each other we kinda eye-fucked? 2nd time he sat w/me at Mud, gave me a Danish and said he’d never forget a face like mine 

 **Matt:** LOL he wants you

 **Tim:** yeah? 

 **Matt:** Did you get his number? 

 **Tim:** no, but I invited him to the show tomorrow

 **Matt:** He coming? 

 **Tim:** yep

 **Matt:** OK, I’ll check him out and give you my professional opinion, but I think ur good to go 👍

 **Tim:** 🙏 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Can Armie pull off having two "dates" in one night without hurting someone's feelings?


	7. Both

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie panics and Tim gets confirmation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter was really hard to write; that's why it took me so long. I'm not satisfied with it, but I reached the point that I felt more tinkering wasn't going to help and I needed to move on. I know no one is a fan of Armie right now and honestly, this chapter probably won't help.

A spoiled narcissist with no impulse control derails Armie’s plans to leave work in enough time to have a couple of drinks with Dev and make it to the club by 9 p.m. to meet Tim. 

Armie is packing up his laptop when Lauren rushes over to say Kanye West is having a MAGA-laced meltdown on Twitter while some of his famous pals attempt an online intervention in real time. She tells him to monitor the unfolding drama and post a story as soon as West stops tweeting.

He groans and sits back down. _Obama was right, he’s a fucking jackass._

By the time someone manages to wrestle Kanye’s phone away, it’s after 6 p.m. Armie usually thrives under the pressure of a tight deadline, but the fact that he needs to finish quickly since he’s already running late makes it nearly impossible for him to write anything coherent — much less witty or incisive— about the bizarre episode. 

Over the course of 35 increasingly tense minutes, he types and deletes, stares at the cursor’s taunting blink, swears under his breath and wills the words to come. He’s finally out the door at 7 p.m. feeling anxious about the time and nervous about the date. 

Armie hasn’t been on a first date in years and this one comes freighted with expectations — from Justin, who’s still pissed at him; from Maya, who urged him to keep an open mind; even his own. Armie genuinely wants to see if he and Dev might connect, but he also doesn’t want to force something simply because he needs a distraction from Tim. 

They’re meeting at a place called the Pelican Club, midway between their offices. Given the name, Armie expects a kitschy nautical theme, so he’s surprised by the mahogany paneling, velvet banquettes and leather club chairs. It’s much swankier than the places he usually drinks. In dark jeans and a pink gingham button-down, he feels a tad underdressed among the posh, slightly older clientele. 

He spots Dev at a table beneath an ornate chandelier and takes a moment to look him over. Dev, a certified public accountant, is dressed conservatively in a navy suit, white shirt and patterned tie. His wavy ebony hair is closely cropped and he wears a goatee. Overall, Armie is pleasantly surprised — he’s embarrassed to admit he had forgotten how handsome the other man is. As he makes his way over, Armie silences the impertinent voice in his head comparing Dev to Tim. 

“Dev, hi.” 

“Hey, Armie!” Dev stands and there is a brief moment of awkward fumbling as the pair try to decide if they should shake hands or hug. They end up embracing briefly. 

“I’m so sorry I had to push this back, but I was watching a slow-moving train wreck,” Armie says. 

“What happened?” 

“Kanye West started spewing a bunch of garbage on Twitter about slavery, Donald Trump and Democrats. As you can probably imagine, things quickly went south.” 

“Yikes! You probably really need a drink then,” Dev chuckles. “What can I get you?” 

“Oh, you don’t have to…” 

“Armie, it’s no problem. You can get the next round.” 

“Um, OK. Whiskey neat. Thanks,” Armie smiles weakly. He wonders if he has time for more than one drink at this point. 

While Dev is at the bar, he sneaks a peek at his watch. It’s already 7:30 p.m. _Fuck me. There is no way I’m getting out of here in an hour._

* * * *

Tim and Matt are on the fire escape outside Matt’s living room window passing a joint and watching the sunset’s soft orange and pink glow.  

“So, tell me more about this guy,” Matt says, plucking the joint from Tim’s slim fingers. 

“Oh, man.” Tim exhales, lips curved up into a dreamy smile. “He’s sooo tall, like, six-foot-four maybe? He has this deep voice that just seems to rumble up out of his chest and the bluest eyes. Really long legs and these, like, gargantuan hands that could probably wrap all the way around my —"

“Whoa, that’s enough!”

“I was going to say wrap around my waist. Dude, get your mind out of the fucking gutter,” Tim giggles, giving Matt a playful shove. 

“Anyway, I wasn’t finished. He has the sexiest smile and his _face_ , fuck, I can’t even describe it. You’ll just have to see for yourself. But I’m not interested in him only for his body, because _I_ am an intellectual,” he grins. “He’s funny and well-read. Smart. We have stuff in common, similar interests and it was like, we just clicked, you know? Questionable taste in music, though, not gonna lie.”

“Sounds perfect,” Matt laughs. 

Tim shrugs, bringing the joint to his lips, “Maybe for me.” 

* * * *

Dev is telling a story about a wealthy client who tried to write off his annual two-week vacation in the Cayman Islands as a business expense because he reviewed his offshore accounts with his banker while he was there.

“Wait, wait,” Armie gasps laughing. “This guy has stashed hundreds of thousands in the islands to reduce his tax burden and he _still_ wants the IRS to give him a break for working on his tan?” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, “Rich people are a fucking trip.” 

“Man, you have no idea,” Dev says, reaching for his drink.  

Armie’s on his second whiskey and enjoying himself — Dev is charming and funny and they have an easy rapport — but if he doesn’t leave soon, he’s afraid he’ll miss the show.  

“Do you have to be somewhere, Armie?” Dev asks when he catches him looking at his watch. 

“I, uh, have this work thing. A hip hop show I have to get to, I’m sorry.”

“Maybe I could tag along? Who’s playing?” 

“It’s a showcase, for like, new artists. It’s an industry and press event so, you know, there’s a guest list.” _You’re going to burn in hell, Hammer._

 _“_ Oh.” Dev sounds disappointed. “Well, maybe another time.” 

Armie stands. “Dev, this was … I had a good time tonight and I’m really sorry I have to cut our evening short.” He starts to say more, about getting together again soon, about calling, but he doesn’t want to make promises he may not be able to keep. 

“Yeah, me too,” Dev smiles. 

The pair hug again before Armie heads for the door. Once he’s outside, he curses himself for bringing his laptop. He can’t take it with him to the club, so he has to hoof it back to the office before he orders an Uber. The clock is ticking. 

* * * *

Armie checks his watch again during the ride — almost 10 p.m. He’s not sure when Tim’s friends are going on but he feels like he might be too late. When his driver pulls up at the club, a handful of people are milling around outside smoking and Armie breathes a sigh of relief, hoping he hasn’t fucked this up.  

Inside, the DJ is playing old school rap and the stage is empty. Armie looks around for Tim, but it’s too dim to make out many faces and the place is pretty packed. The line at the bar is three-deep, but he takes advantage of his height to get the bartender’s attention.

When he turns, Armie sees Tim threading his way through the crowd toward him. Under the cover of darkness, he lets his eyes roam over Tim’s lithe figure — black leather boots, black jeans tucked into red socks and a white T-shirt covered in tiny crows. 

“Armie, you came,” Tim says, beaming up at him. 

“Hey, of course! I would have been here earlier but …” Armie winces and trails off, remembering that he can’t tell Tim about Kanye because “freelance graphic designers” don’t write about celebrity Twitter freak-outs. 

“No worries, my friends haven’t gone on yet.” They stand there for a beat smiling goofily at each other. “Come on, there are some people I want you to meet.” 

Armie follows Tim over to a group sitting at two tables at the rear of the club. “Everybody, this is Armie. Armie, this is Matt, Christian, Sarah, Enrique, Naomi and Tyler,” he says, pointing to each of them in turn. 

Armie exchanges pleasantries with the group and slides into a seat next to Tim, who says something he can’t make out over the throbbing bass. He scoots his chair closer and feels Tim’s knee pressing into the side of his thigh. Tim doesn’t move his leg away.

Armie dips his head so Tim can speak directly into his ear. “I said, my friends are probably going on in about half an hour!”

He nods, lifts his beer to his lips and catches —Matt was it? — staring at him. When their eyes meet, Matt raises his drink in a mock toast.

He’s wondering what that was all about when the volume of the music drops and he feels a tap on his shoulder. 

“Armie?”

He turns to find one of Maya’s co-workers standing behind him. He’s been to dinner parties with her and had happy-hour drinks with her. She knows where he works.

“Sasha! Hi.” He gets up quickly and gives her a friendly hug.

“I thought that was you when I saw you come in,” she smiles warmly. 

“Yep, it’s me!” Armie is aware that he’s grinning too widely, talking too loudly; that his cheery tone probably rings false. He wants to take Sasha by the elbow and lead her as far away from Tim as possible, but he knows that would be incredibly rude and arouse suspicion. Instead, he tries to calm his racing heart and faces the younger man. 

“Sasha, this is Tim and …” the icy tendrils of dread crawling up his spine twine around his brain, short circuiting his memory “… his friends. They’re performing tonight.” 

Tim eyes Armie curiously. “Hi Sasha,” he says politely, extending his hand. “Actually, none of these guys are performing, but we’re friends with the dudes doing the next set.” 

“Nice to meet you, Tim.” If she recognizes him, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

Armie hasn’t stepped inside a church since he left home for college, but right now he’s sending up a prayer to every deity he can think of and making pledges he has no real intention of honoring if they will just get him through this night unscathed. _I’ll stop smoking weed. I’ll start eating kale. I’ll call my parents more often._

“So Armie, it’s been a while, how have you been?” Sasha asks. 

“Ah, good, good, you know. Did Maya tell you we painted our place? She did? Yeah, we went on an HGTV binge one weekend — those Scott brothers are design geniuses, right? And Chip and Joanna, man I love them — so yeah, we, um, decided to do an accent wall in the living room and then things kinda snowballed,” Armie rambles, resisting the urge to wipe away the bead of sweat trickling down his temple. 

Tim watches him intently. 

“And how’s work? The last time we talked you said you were trying to —“ 

Suddenly, Public Enemy’s Fight the Power blares from the sound system drowning out Sasha’s next words. She keeps talking, but Armie pretends he can’t hear. After repeating herself several times, Sasha laughs and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Turning slightly, she shouts “Nice to meet you!” at the table and leans in to hug Armie, who is trembling from the jolt of adrenaline coursing through his body. 

When she walks away, Armie pulls his vape pen from his pocket and gestures vaguely toward the entrance as he staggers off. Outside, he walks a few feet away from the door and leans heavily against the building. His head is throbbing and he struggles to regulate his breathing.

He jumps when Tim touches him lightly on the arm. “Hey, are you OK Armie?”

“Yeah, I just felt a little lightheaded all of a sudden. Probably because I’m drinking on an empty stomach,” he frowns. It’s a half-truth. 

“Come with me.” 

Tim leads him a few doors down to a pizza place that’s not much more than a stand, just a counter and four stools. “Sit,” he points. Tim orders three slices and places two with pepperoni in front of Armie. “Eat,” he commands. 

Armie thinks Tim’s care taking side is endearing, and he finds baby dom Tim surprisingly sexy. He does as he’s told and tucks into his food. 

“So,” Tim wipes orange grease from his lips and hands with a stack of thin napkins. “What happened back there?”

“What do you mean?” Armie asks mid-chew. He feels like the glutenous mass of pizza is making its way back up.

“It’s just, when you saw her this look crossed your face? Like, she was the last person you expected to see. That you wanted to see,” Tim looks down at the scarred countertop, a fist tucked beneath his chin. “Is she your ex or something?” 

Armie’s heart sinks. He closes his eyes briefly and chides himself again for deceiving this sweet, trusting kid.

“No, Tim. She’s not my ex, she works with my best friend. I guess I just wasn’t expecting to run into anyone I know. You know how when you see a familiar face in an unexpected place and for a second there’s a disconnect and you can’t quite place the person? It was something like that, I think.”

He glances at Tim before continuing, “My ex, Simon, was an indie rock snob. Believe me, he’d never be caught dead at a hip hop show.” 

Tim’s head snaps up, wide eyes searching Armie’s face.

“What about you? Is one of the women back at the club an ex or your girlfriend?”

Tim frowns, considers his response. He’s relieved and excited to know he was right about Armie, but he still can’t tell him the truth. Not yet, anyway.

“No, we’re all friends,” he says. “I’m seeing this girl, but it’s pretty new so it’s, you know, kinda casual at this point. She couldn’t make it tonight.” 

Armie nods. “Well,” he discards their trash, “we should probably get back. Don’t want to miss the show.” 

* * * *

He can’t take his eyes off Tim, who is dancing with his friends and rapping along to every song.  The way he rolls his hips inspires sinful thoughts. Armie, who avoids dancing in public, stands near the wall with a cup of water in one hand and his third beer in the other. 

During a lull between songs, Tim shimmies over and stops in front of him, green eyes bright and glassy. 

“Hey, is one of these for me?” he shouts breathlessly. His shirt is clinging to his chest and his damp curls stick to his forehead. 

“Sure, which one do you want?” 

“Mmmm … I want both, I like both,” he says suggestively, watching Armie over the rim of the cup.

He hands it back, steps closer and takes the beer. Armie feels time slow watching Tim touch the mouth of the bottle to his full lower lip and run the tip of his tongue along the rim. He tilts his head back to drink, exposing the long, smooth column of his throat.

“Thanks.” Tim licks his lips and places the empty bottle on a nearby table. He’s inches away from Armie, swaying a little, chest rising and falling rapidly, his gaze sliding slowly from Armie’s eyes down to his mouth. 

Armie’s throat is dry and he’s holding his breath. Waiting. Then the music explodes, a cheer erupts and a grinning Tim recedes into the pulsating crowd. 

 


	8. Insta-regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie commits a social media blunder and Tim makes a momentous decision.

Armie stirs when the strip of sunlight shining through the slim gap in his bedroom curtains falls across his face. His head is throbbing and his throat is so dry it feels like he slept with his mouth stuffed with cotton balls. He disentangles himself from the twisted sheets and struggles out of bed. After relieving himself, he gulps water from the faucet and downs a couple of painkillers.

Maya is sitting on the sofa eating breakfast when Armie shuffles past the living room on his way to the kitchen. 

“There’s coffee in the pot and oatmeal on the stove if you’re interested,” she calls out, flicking through the TV channels looking for MSNBC. 

“Mmmph… ” Armie mumbles, unable to form words before he gets an infusion of caffeine into his system. 

He grabs the largest mug he can find and fills it almost to the top, eschewing his usual creamer. He needs it black this morning. He spoons the remainder of the oatmeal and blueberries into a bowl and pops it in the microwave. When it’s hot, he liberally sprinkles on ground cinnamon and adds a few crushed walnuts. In the living room, he sets his coffee down on a coaster on the end table and sinks slowly down onto the couch with his bowl. 

Maya glances over and does a double-take — his hair is flattened on one side of his head and sticking up at the crown, he has purple smudges under his eyes and a crease in his cheek from sleeping on the edge of his comforter. 

“Jesus, you look rough! What happened last night? I didn’t even hear you come in,” she asks.

Armie groans around the spoonful of oatmeal he’s shoveling into his mouth, perversely hoping the food will settle his stomach and quiet the pounding in his head. 

“Too loud,” he croaks. 

Maya wants to laugh because Armie brags all the time about not having had a hangover since college and teases her mercilessly about being a lightweight. But she can tell he’s in a bad way, so she lowers her voice. “Do you need aspirin?” 

“Already took some,” he sighs.

“How many drinks did you have last night?” 

“Not sure. I stopped counting around my third beer? And I needed every fucking one of them, too,” he says, placing the empty bowl on the end table and picking up his mug. “In hindsight, I should have realized my night was going to go off the rails when Kanye West started tweeting about slavery.” 

Maya grins, lowers the volume on the TV and turns to face him, sitting with her back against the armrest, legs outstretched. Armie is a gifted, animated storyteller and she can already tell this one is going to be a doozy; she doesn’t want to miss any of his facial expressions or gestures. 

By the time he gets to the part where he thought Tim was going to kiss him, Maya is practically hysterical. 

“Hold up, first he lays this ‘I like both’ line on you and he gets all up in your personal space, but then he just leaves you hanging and, like, _moonwalks_ back into the crowd?!” she whoops. 

Armie flinches. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she flaps her hands in the air. “Oh my god, this kid is the best! He definitely knows what he’s doing, Armie. Then what happened?”

“I went back to the bar, but I’m pretty sure I ordered a whiskey that time, which is how I started the night by the way, because my nerves were fucking shot,” he scrubs a hand roughly through his hair. “The show went on for another hour or so, I guess. And the whole time, I’m just sweating it out, because what’s he gonna say? Or do?” 

Maya nods enthusiastically. “OK, soooo…?”

He takes another swig of his cooling coffee and makes a face. “So, nothing. We went to another bar, where I stupidly had even more to drink and Tim and his friends were all buzzing off the alcohol, the weed and the post-performing high. By that point, I was physically exhausted, emotionally wrung out and on the verge of being totally wasted. So, I came home. I vaguely remember taking a selfie with him at some point though, at the second bar I think.” 

“Ooh, let’s see it. Where’s your phone?” 

Armie finds it in the pocket of the jeans he discarded in a pile on the floor with his shirt before he fell into bed. He’s unlocking the phone when he returns to the living room. 

“Oh, shit.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I posted it on Instagram … and I tagged him. Fuck!” 

Armie’s account is public, even though he has only a small group of friends who follow him. Among the dozens of cute cat photos and pictures he’s taken at parties, of iconic landmarks around the city and on the Italian vacation he took with Simon last summer (after the break-up he removed all of the ones Simon was in), are a few of him and Justin at work functions where the Buzzbeat logo is clearly visible. He’s managed to avoid throwing up thus far, but his stomach is churning now. 

Maya jumps up and snatches his phone. “First, we make your account private. Second, we delete the photo. Unfortunately, he’ll still have the notification that you tagged him, but he won’t have access to your account,” her gaze shifts from the screen to his face, expression grim. “That is, unless he’s already looked at it.” 

Armie groans and buries his head in his hands, tugging at his hair. “Of-fucking-course social media is going to be the reason this whole thing falls apart! He’s always on his phone, May. He probably saw it last night. I am so fucked. Tim’s gonna hate me and never speak to me again. Then Lauren’s gonna fire me when I can’t deliver the story. I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

Maya is going through every post deleting anything that links Armie to Buzzbeat, the Columbia J-school or journalism more broadly. It may be too late, but she figures it’s better to be proactive, just in case. She remains convinced Armie never should have lied to Tim about his job; but she always has Armie’s back no matter what, so she’ll do whatever she can to help him deal with this mess.  

When she glances at Armie, his eyes are closed and he’s slumped down with his head resting against the back of the couch. 

“Hey,” she bumps his shoulder with hers, “worrying about this won’t change anything, you’re just going to get yourself all worked up. All you can do is wait and see what he says, right? Look, if he was as fucked up as you say last night, he might not have seen the notification and maybe he’s not up yet so he hasn’t checked his phone this morning either. There’s still hope.

“I’d stay with you, but I’m supposed to meet Jas and Nia at the farmer’s market in an hour. Do you want to come? There’s no better distraction from what ails you than fresh produce,” she jokes. 

“Nah, thanks. I still don’t feel that great. I think I’m just going to hang out here with Pugs,” he says, idly stroking their chubby tabby, who has taken over his lap. 

“Don’t mope! And look on the bright side.” 

He stares at her, confused. 

“You guys look pretty cute together,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows and dodging the throw pillow Armie lobs in her direction. 

* * * *

A couple of hours later, Armie still hasn’t moved from the couch. He’s indulging in a favorite Saturday afternoon activity — watching murderous spouses, neighbors and strangers get their well-deserved comeuppance on true-crime TV dramas — when his phone vibrates with a text from “Sweet T.” He furrows his brow.

 **Sweet T:** hey, Armie! 

 **Armie:** Um, sorry. Who is this? 

 **Sweet T:** it’s Tim 

 **Armie:** Why did you come up as Sweet T? 

 **Sweet T:** oh, man. when I put my number in your phone I must have done that. change it, please. sorry! 

 **Armie:** No, it’s cool 

 **Sweet T:** can I call you? 

 **Armie:** Sure 

In the minute or so that it takes for the phone to ring, Armie spirals through the five stages of grief: 

 **Denial:** _If Tim knew I lied, he wouldn’t want to talk. He’d just tell me to fuck right off via text._

 **Anger:**   _This entire bullshit situation is Lauren’s fault! Why the fuck did she give me this assignment and basically order me to use deceit to get the story?_

 **Bargaining:** _OK, if by some miracle he didn’t see my Instagram, I’m going to come clean and tell him everything._

 **Depression:** _Why do I fuck up everything good in my life?_

 **Acceptance:** _Well, it was fun while it lasted._  

The phone rings and he braces himself for fury and rejection. “Hi, Tim. How are you?” 

“Ugh, trying to recover from last night. How are you sounding so chipper, I feel like shit.” 

He chuckles. “You should have heard me when I woke up a few hours ago. It was touch and go for a while there. Did you just get up or something?” He crosses his fingers. 

“Yeah, not that long ago. I was completely wiped out,” Tim coughs. “So, I, uh, wanted to say that I’m really glad you came out last night. I had a good time hanging out with you.” 

Armie thinks he might be out of the woods because Tim is too kind and honest to string him along. He’s sure that if Tim knows the truth, he would be forthright and confront him. 

“I had fun, too. Thanks for letting me be your seventh or eighth wheel.” 

There’s a brief pause, then Tim continues, “I saw that you tagged me in a photo —“

Armie feels like he’s been kicked in the gut. _Here it comes._  

“— but your Instagram is private and I couldn’t see it.” 

Relief floods Armie. He doubles over, head hanging between his knees, gasping for breath. 

“Armie? Are you still there?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he answers in a strangled voice. “Just, uh, can you hold on for a minute?” 

_Jesus, Hammer, tell him! This is your chance to possibly salvage this. No, I can’t._

“OK, I’m back. Uh, my Instagram is just for my small circle of friends, you know? Besides, I already deleted the photo. I can text it to you, if you want to see it, though.” 

Full of liquid and herbal courage at the club, Tim had almost kissed Armie before losing his nerve at the last minute. Despite some of the things Armie has said — and Matt’s insistence that the older man is definitely interested in him — Tim can’t quite believe a guy like Armie, who could have anyone he wants, would be attracted to a skinny, awkward kid like him. He was flattered when Armie asked to take a selfie with him, though, and now he’s crushed that Armie apparently didn’t want anyone to see it. 

“You deleted it?”

“I only posted it because I was drunk,” he confesses. “Look, Tim, I, um, don’t want you to think I’m some kind of starfucker or something —” 

“I don’t think that Armie,” Tim interjects. 

“Good, because the truth is,” Armie rolls his eyes at his choice of words, “that I … really like you, Tim. Not because you’re famous, but because you’re sweet, intelligent, generous, kind-hearted and so beautiful. And I feel like we have the kind of genuine, deep connection I haven’t experienced with anyone in a long time. Am I wrong?” 

“You’re not wrong,” Tim whispers, blushing furiously.

“But you have a girlfriend, so I guess you aren’t really free to explore something between us?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Tim objects. He thinks about Brian and Lily and the bigoted Hollywood players they’re trying to appease with this romance ruse. For as long as he can remember, acting has been the only thing Tim has ever wanted to do. He loves acting, not for the fame and fortune it brings, but because he wants to tell meaningful stories and embody characters who illuminate the human condition. Nevertheless, Tim decides he won’t sacrifice an opportunity for happiness, possibly even for love, because some people who have the power to sabotage his career steadfastly refuse to accept queer actors and same-sex relationships.  

“Like I said before, we’re dating, but not exclusively. And honestly Armie, if the choice is between you and her, well, I choose you. I want you.”

“Me too,” Armie says softly. He clears his throat, “So, will you let me take you on a date?” 

Tim is positively giddy. “Yes, of course!”

“OK, I have tickets to the Yankees-A’s game tomorrow afternoon. Will you come with me? I should warn you, though, the tickets are pretty far up in the cheap seats.” 

Armie was supposed to go to the game with Maya, but he’s pretty sure she would be willing to give up her ticket. Besides, the two of them are also going to the Tuesday night game. 

“I actually prefer the cheap seats and I promise not to get a nosebleed.” 

“In the spirit of full disclosure, I should also tell you that I’m a huge A’s fan, I adopted the team when I was in college, so I’ll be rooting loudly, and probably obnoxiously, against your Yankees.” 

“No problem. That will only make our inevitable victory that much sweeter,” Tim snickers. 

They make plans to meet outside the stadium and then Tim has to get ready to go to his parents’ home for dinner. After they hang up, Armie vows to tell Tim the truth when he sees him in person. 

He also texts the selfie to Tim. In the picture, they are leaning in to each other, bleary-eyed, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with matching wide grins.

 **Armie:** Here’s our photo. Somehow, I look like I’ve been on a week-long bender and you’re flawless. 🤨

 **Sweet T:**  stop it! you’re gorgeous. 😍

 


	9. Take Me Out to the Ballgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie gets an unwelcome surprise and is Tim harboring a secret, too?

It’s a perfect day for baseball — azure sky, dazzling sunshine, hot but not humid; a cool breeze blowing in off the river. 

Waiting amongst the throngs of fans outside the stadium, Tim spots Armie first. Hidden behind his Saint Laurent sunglasses, his eyes crawl slowly over Armie’s tall frame — a faded green T-shirt with Oakland emblazoned in gold letters stretches across his broad chest and khaki shorts reveal miles of tanned, muscled leg. Like Tim, he’s wearing a baseball cap.

Tim bounces excitedly on his toes. _This is really happening._

When Armie looks in his direction, he raises a hand and waves. Seeing him, Armie flashes a smile and weaves his way through the crowd to reach him. 

“Hi,” Tim says shyly.  

“Hey,” Armie enfolds him in a warm embrace, breathing in his spicy cologne. 

Armie pulls back, taking in Tim's jeans and designer T-shirt. “Don’t you ever get hot and wear shorts or something a little cooler?” 

“I’m usually kinda cold, actually. I mean, not right now, today is pretty nice. But I’m not big on wearing shorts,” Tim explains, leaving out that he doesn’t like how his skinny legs and knobby knees look.

Inside, they make their way to their seats. On the long climb to the upper tier, Tim gasps for breath. 

“Hey are you OK?” Armie asks, gingerly placing a hand on Tim’s heaving back. 

“I’m fine,” he puffs. “It’s just that the air is so thin waaaaay up here, I can’t breathe. I wonder if they sell oxygen at the concession stand.” Cackling, he sprints up the remaining steps, his cross-body bag bouncing against his lower back. 

“Very funny, Chalamet!” Armie calls after him with feigned annoyance. He’s grinning, though, delighted at how they are already comfortable enough to tease each other.

Once they’re settled between a group of obnoxious bros in backward Yankees caps and a couple wearing matching hot pink jerseys, Tim asks Armie if he can buy him a beer. 

“Nah, better let me get it,” he smirks, beckoning the vendor. “Do you really want to get carded in front of the whole stadium, Tim? Because there’s no way anyone is selling you booze without checking your ID, babyface.” 

Tim rolls his eyes and slips his wallet back in his pocket. “Well, since you’re buying I also want a hot dog.”

“Anything else I can get for you, your royal highness? Peanuts? Ice cream? Some of that awful stale pink popcorn to match your cap?” he chuckles, flicking the bill with his index finger. 

Tim scowls at him and readjusts his hat.

“I may want something more later, Armie,” he replies smoothly, licking his lips. Armie’s smile falters and he swallows thickly. It’s Tim’s turn to look smug. 

* * * *

They spend the game trash talking and cheering or jeering loudly with every hit, strikeout and run scored. During the seventh inning stretch, Tim boisterously sings along to “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” 

“What? Too cheesy?” he asks when he notices Armie staring.

“No, you’re just …” he trails off, at a loss for words. 

He’s having a hard time reconciling goofy, bashful Tim with his flirtatious and confident alter ego. One minute he’s blushing and nervously stumbling over his words and the next he’s flashing his wicked tongue and dropping come-ons like bombs. It’s enough to make Armie’s head spin, but he finds it very attractive. 

* * * *

The Yankees win and Tim offers to buy Armie an early dinner as a consolation prize. They grab a table at an unassuming Cuban restaurant a few blocks from the stadium. 

“So, tell me more about the play you’re doing. Didn’t you say rehearsals start tomorrow?” Armie asks, digging into a plate of ropa vieja. 

“Mm-hm,” Tim mumbles around a mouthful of black beans and rice. “It’s about a guy who’s basically angry at the world. He dropped out of community college and can’t find a decent job, so he’s still living at home with his parents. No girlfriend, no prospects and he can’t understand how he ended up in this position because his entire life he’s been told that, as a straight white dude, he’s _entitled_ to all the American trappings of success — a lucrative career, fancy car, big house, hot wife — but he doesn’t have any of that, so he’s filled with rage and looking for someone to blame.

“He starts exploring some of the darker corners of the Internet and eventually comes across a charismatic guy who’s selling white supremacy and racial hatred wrapped in a veneer of gentility. My character gets sucked into that ugly world with tragic consequences.” 

“Man, that sounds pretty intense. How do you prepare for a role like that?” 

“I’ve read books about hate groups and a couple of memoirs by people who were hardcore white supremacists, but ultimately rejected the ideology. I also checked out some of the web sites and social media accounts, but that stuff made my skin crawl. Honestly, I’m kinda scared of living inside that mindset for a few months,” Tim confesses.

“Well, if you ever need to decompress or just talk about how you’re feeling, I’d be happy to listen,” Armie offers. 

“Thanks, man. I might take you up on that,” Tim says. “So, um, can I ask you a personal question?” 

“Sure.”

“You mentioned that when you were a kid you would take refuge in books when things got uncomfortable at home. What was your childhood like?” 

“And we were having such a nice time.” 

“I’m sorry, we don’t … we don’t have to talk about it,” Tim stammers, cheeks pink with embarrassment. 

Armie reaches across the table and squeezes his hand reassuringly. “It’s all right, Tim. I don’t mind. How can I explain? My parents are very religious and growing up they were incredibly strict with me and my younger brother. We went to church all the time, when we were young they chose our friends, just other kids from church basically; and they fed us a steady diet of judgmental intolerance. They discouraged any kind of personal expression or opinions that conflicted with their evangelical Christian beliefs. 

“Immersing myself in the fantasy worlds of Middle-earth or Hogwarts helped me forget, for a little while at least, about my real life. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t abused in any way, I actually had a privileged upbringing, I was just unhappy a lot of the time.”  

“Do they know you’re —”

“Gay? Yes. Coming out to them was pretty much a disaster and we didn’t talk for a while afterwards. Now, we never discuss my personal life. They don’t ask if I’m dating anyone, they never met my ex,” Armie sighs. “It’s not ideal, but for now at least we’re civil, since we can’t be close. I don’t go home to visit very often.” 

He studies Tim, who is fidgeting with his fork. “What about you? Do your parents know?” 

“Yeah, I came out to them and my older sister when I was in high school. My parents are very liberal and open-minded. They taught us to accept people for who they are, so they were supportive.” 

“In high school?! I knew I was gay in high school, well junior high actually, but I never told anyone.” 

“Not even any of your friends?” 

“No. Trust me, that wouldn’t have gone over well with the jocks I hung out with. It was better if I played the part, you know, pretended to be straight, took a girl to the prom,” he shrugs. “It was relatively easy to pull off, even if it was kinda depressing.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through that on your own,” Tim murmurs. He thinks about how what he’s doing with Lily isn’t all that different from Armie’s experience. _Going along to get along._  

* * * *

They linger over the meal, neither one of them wanting their day together to end. 

“Do you want to come to my place and watch a movie on Netflix or something?” Tim finally asks, rubbing the back of his neck. He realizes too late that “or something” might sound suggestive and he hopes Armie doesn’t think he’s trying to get in his pants; although he definitely would not mind getting in his pants.

Armie realizes he hasn’t kept his promise to tell Tim the entire truth. He justifies the delay by assuring himself that such a potentially explosive conversation should take place behind closed doors. In that case, going to Tim’s apartment is a good idea, he reasons. On the other hand, Armie knows he’ll have to overcome temptation if he’s alone with Tim anywhere near a bed or a sofa or a wall. 

_Down boy._

“Yeah, OK.” 

The apartment is tiny, even by New York City standards. The kitchen can fit two people, but only if one of them is flattened against the refrigerator and neither is attempting to cook. The living room holds a love seat and an armchair. A storage ottoman does double duty as additional seating and a table. Armie eyes the love seat with trepidation. 

“Can I get you anything? Water, beer, wine?” 

“Wine would be great, thanks.” 

Armie picks up a picture frame from the window sill. The photo is of Tim, an older couple and a young woman who looks eerily like him. 

“My family. That was the night before the Oscars,” he says, peeking around Armie’s shoulder and handing him a glass of red wine. 

“Well, I can see you got your looks honestly. You’re all gorgeous.”  

Tim smiles and shakes his head. “Thank you. Now, sit and let’s see what we can find to watch.” 

Even though he’s pressed against the armrest, Armie is acutely aware of how close they are. He makes a conscious effort to keep his leg from touching Tim’s. Out of the corner of his eye he sees that Tim is engrossed in the movie. _Breathe, Hammer. You can sit here without jumping on him._

Tim is using every bit of self control he has to remain perfectly still. His gaze falls on Armie’s lap where his shorts have ridden up exposing the pale, soft-looking skin on his inner thighs. _Fuck. Don’t look, don’t look._ He refocuses on the TV, but he has no idea what’s going on at this point. He gulps the remainder of his wine and leans forward to put his glass on the floor. When he sits up, he scoots a little closer to Armie and rests his head on his shoulder. _This is fine, right? Yes, completely innocent._  

Armie inhales sharply. He feels like he’s in high school again — flustered and tense — except back then he didn’t want the girl to touch him and now he’s desperate to feel Tim’s soft hands on his body. He slowly slides his arm around Tim’s waist, pulling him flush against him. 

Tim shudders. He looks up from under his long eyelashes, lips parted. “Armie,” he breathes. 

Armie brushes his lips across Tim’s, eliciting a whimper. Armie presses his mouth gently against his in a soft kiss, pulls Tim’s plump bottom lip between his own and sucks lightly, tracing it with his tongue. Tim moans and opens his mouth. Armie’s tongue sweeps inside, sliding deliciously against Tim’s. 

When the kiss deepens, Tim reaches up to tangle his fingers in the hair at the nape of Armie’s neck. He whines in protest when Armie pulls away, then gasps when Armie leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses across his throat. 

“God, you’re so beautiful, so sexy,” Armie whispers hotly in his ear. 

They spend long minutes kissing, touching, exploring. A voice of reason pierces the fog of lust blanketing Armie’s brain and admonishes him about taking things too far before he’s been truthful with Tim. 

When he starts to climb into his lap, Armie gently, but firmly, pushes him back.

“Tim, no, no.” 

Tim is flushed and breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide and his lips are swollen and bright red. “What? Why not?” His face crumples.“You don’t want…”

“I do, believe me, I do,” Armie answers quickly. “I just think we should cool down a little and take things slow.” He cups Tim’s face with both hands and gives him a lingering kiss. “Is that OK?”

Tim closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to steady himself. He nods, smiling. 

They decide to watch several episodes of _Parks and Recreation_ to dispel the sexual tension and lighten the mood. A couple of hours later, they call it a night. 

At the door, Armie faces Tim and takes his hands, entwining their fingers. “I was thinking, if you don’t have plans tomorrow night and you’re not too worn out from your first day of rehearsal, maybe we could have dinner?” 

“I’d like that,” Tim says, lifting up on his toes to kiss Armie tenderly.

* * * *

Armie and Tim see each other every night except Tuesday, when Maya and Armie go to the baseball game. They text throughout the game, which Tim is watching at home. When the A’s win, Armie promises to bring Thai food over the following night. They keep their make-out sessions relatively tame — no grinding, no clothing removed, no touching below the waist. It’s a challenge. 

Despite his vow, Armie never gets around to telling the truth. He knows there's no excuse for his behavior, he's simply afraid of losing Tim. 

At work, Armie interviews the director of the Tab Hunter documentary and arranges to speak with Rupert Everett and Matt Bomer, two openly gay actors who have built successful careers.

Lauren is pleased with how the story is shaping up, but she wants Armie to get a studio executive and a publicist or agent to go on the record about the obstacles queer actors face in Hollywood and fake celebrity relationships, even if they insist on anonymity.

It’s late Thursday afternoon when a Slack message from Lauren pops up on his computer screen. 

 **Lauren:** Hey, have you seen the latest about Chalamet and Depp? 

 **Armie:** Nope 

 **Lauren:** celebweekly.com <eyeroll emoji>

**Timothée Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp Have Romantic Date Night!**

_Timothée Chalamet and Lily-Rose Depp, darlings of Hollywood and the world of high fashion, were spotted last Saturday night having a romantic dinner in New York City._

_The stunning couple, who have reportedly been dating for a few months, dined at Beurre, a cozy French bistro in the West Village. Depp, 19, daughter of French model Vanessa Paradis and Johnny Depp, is the face of Chanel and a budding actress. She and Chalamet, 22, met in the spring on the set of the upcoming Netflix film_ **_The King_** _, an adaptation of William Shakespeare’s_ **_Henry V_ ** _._

_The fashionable pair wore designer duds and appeared very much in love, an eyewitness told Celeb Weekly exclusively._

_“They were so wrapped up in each other,” the eyewitness said.“Timothée couldn’t tear his eyes away from Lily, who seemed to be flirting with him in French.”_

_The young lovers shared coq au vin, boeuf bourguignon and a lemon tart for dessert, according to the eagle-eyed observer, who reported that Chalamet paid for the meal._

_Chalamet, who was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actor for his stellar turn in the heartbreaking indie love story_ ** _Call Me By Your Name_** _, is generating early Oscar buzz for his performance in_ ** _Beautiful Boy_** _, which premieres at the Toronto International Film Festival in September. The film, which also stars Steve Carell, is based on father and son David and Nic Sheff’s memoirs about the younger Sheff’s years-long struggle with crystal meth addiction._  

Armie is reeling. Tim told him he was having dinner at his parents’ home that night.

_Fuck. Did he lie to me? Has he been lying all along?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the most stereotypical French meal ever? Perhaps! I know very little about French cuisine and these are the only two dishes I'm familiar with. My apologies to any gourmands!


	10. Trust, but Verify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie can't help himself and Tim is blindsided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go ...

Armie stares blankly at his computer, eyes unfocused, the words on the screen swimming before him. He feels numb and dazed. 

He needs to talk to Maya. Armie digs through his bag until he finds his vape pen, grabs his phone and heads for the elevator. On the ride up to the rooftop garden, he sends her a text. 

 **Armie:** *911* 

 **Maya:** OMG what’s wrong?! 

 **Armie:** Calling you in a minute 

Maya picks up on the first ring. 

“What is it? Are you OK?”

“Can you talk?” his voice is strained and he sounds agitated.

“Yes! Armie what’s going on?” she asks, dodging a couple of co-workers as she rushes to a small conference room around the corner from her cubicle. She slips inside, closes the door and flips on the lights. 

“I think Tim has been lying to me…about the girlfriend, maybe about everything. Fuck!” he hisses, running a hand through his hair. Armie sucks hard on the vape pen, savoring the nicotine rush. 

“Lying about what exactly? I don’t understand,” she says. “Armie! Take a deep breath and tell me what the hell is going on.” 

“OK, OK,” he paces briskly between two hulking planters brimming with colorful drought-resistant plants. “Last Saturday, you know, when we talked on the phone, Tim told me he was having dinner with his parents. But a tabloid posted a story today about his dinner date with Lily-Rose Depp that night at some French place in the Village!”

Maya collapses into a chair in the corner. “That’s it? Jesus Armie, you scared the shit out of me.” 

“What do you mean that’s it? Did you even hear what I said May? He lied to me! And if he lied about that, then maybe this whole thing is a just a fucking joke! Maybe none of it means anything to him,” he splutters. 

“Listen, reality check,” she begins. “First of all, it’s a tabloid Armie, half the shit they print isn’t true or accurate. You _know_ this, so why are you acting like you’re brand new? Was there a photo or video with the story?” 

Blinking in the late afternoon sun, Armie’s gaze sweeps over the mid-town skyline. “No…” 

“Right, so there’s no visual proof this dinner actually happened. Let me guess, if there are any quotes or attribution of any kind the story cites an unnamed source, right?” 

“Yeah,” he responds grudgingly. 

“So what we have here is a possibly fabricated story, in a sketchy publication, versus the word of the guy with whom you’ve spent almost every night since this date allegedly took place. A guy who, by your estimation, is honest and open.” 

Armie remains silent. 

Maya sighs. “Look Armie, I’m not saying the story is definitely false. Based on what your publicist friend told you, this sounds like a move right out of the fake relationship playbook,” she points out. 

“I am saying you should give Tim the benefit of the doubt and ask him about it. If you do, though, you better be prepared to tell him the whole fucking truth about your job, the story, everything.” 

“You’re right, I know. Fuck.” He closes his eyes tightly for a moment. “It’s just that he probably won’t want to have anything to do with me after I come clean.” 

“Well, yeah, that’s a real possibility. But that’s also the risk you took when you decided to lie to him in the first place,” she says matter-of-factly.

“Wow, where’s your empathy, May?” Armie grumbles.  

Now that she’s talked him down off the ledge and nicotine is pumping through his veins, he feels calm enough to sit on one of the concrete benches placed around the outdoor space. He watches a rotund pigeon peck at a discarded crust of bread. 

“Hey, I made my feelings about this situation perfectly clear from the very beginning,” she laughs. “Seriously though, Armie, plan what you’re going to say to him, how you’ll explain why you chose to do what you did. Don’t get defensive either, because you’re definitely the one in the wrong here, even if it turns out Tim hasn’t been entirely forthcoming about the girlfriend situation. And be sure to apologize! Not one of those mealy-mouthed, ’I’m sorry if you were offended’ types of apologies either. It needs to be heartfelt and sincere. 

“I hope you can make things right with him. From everything you’ve said, Tim seems like a wonderful guy and I haven’t seen you this happy in a long time.”  

“He really is,” Armie says wistfully. 

Maya looks at her watch. “If you’re feeling better now, I really do have to get back to work. Are you seeing Tim again tonight?”

“We’re gonna catch a movie and have dinner,” he replies, moving toward the stairs leading from the roof to the elevator. 

“Sounds like the perfect opportunity to talk. OK, I have to run. Call or text me if you need advice or emotional support. Bye!” 

“I will. Thanks.” 

* * * *

Back at his desk, Armie jiggles the mouse to wake his computer. He closely reads the _Celeb_ _Weekly_ story again, this time with Tara’s insider info in mind. Maya is right, he thinks, the lack of a photo is a huge red flag and Tim’s or Depp’s reps may have supplied the quotes attributed to the unnamed “eyewitness.” 

He pulls up a few other stories about sightings of the couple around the city. Although he’s read them before, he revisits the reports looking for patterns or similarities. Most of the stories include paparazzi photos of the pair — buying coffee, eating out, walking down the street trying to appear blissfully unaware that they’re being photographed. Only one includes an alleged eyewitness account. In that story, the anonymous voyeur claimed Tim and Depp made out on the street, in broad daylight, for several minutes. 

Armie snorts. _Un-fucking-likely._ _He’d have to find her lips first._

He wants to believe Tim wouldn’t lie to him about Depp, not after saying he would choose Armie over her. He knows Tim is a better person than he is and he has no reason to believe the guy would ever be duplicitous. Tim seems honest almost to a fault. But he’s a reporter, after all. Cynicism runs deep. Old habits die hard. 

Trust, but verify, he mutters, reaching for his office phone. 

* * * *

On his fourth day of rehearsal, Tim feels like he’s finally hitting his stride. It’s been a couple of years since he’s performed in a play and he was a little rusty at first. The rest of the cast and the director helped him brush off the cobwebs and get comfortable again on stage.

After working on a pivotal, emotionally wrenching scene for most of the morning, they break for a late lunch.

“Was _The King_ your first time doing Shakespeare?” asks Jason, who plays the charming white supremacist who seduces Tim’s character over to the dark side. An experienced theater actor in his mid-thirties, already Jason has proven himself to be a generous scene partner.

“Are we counting high school?” Tim asks.

“Nope,” the balding redhead replies, meticulously layering potato chips on the pile of turkey and cheese in his deli sandwich. 

“Then, yeah, it was my first professional foray into the world of the Bard,” he chuckles, taking a bite of his pastrami on rye.

“What was the experience like?” 

“Man, intense. Very physical. As you can see, I’m kind of a small guy.” 

When Jason cocks an eyebrow at him Tim rushes to add, “I mean, I’m not short or anything. But like, slim and not very muscular. During weeks of training before we started shooting — including horseback riding and hand-to-hand combat with swords and shields —I discovered muscles I never knew I had. Let’s just say, I spent a lot of down time with Epsom salt on that set.

“It was like nothing I’ve ever done before. Challenging, sometimes exhausting, but a lot of fun. Joel Edgerton is a brilliant filmmaker. What about you? Any Shakespeare on your resume?” 

“A couple off-Broadway revivals of _Hamlet_ and _Othello_ , not the leads though,” Jason shrugs. “But it doesn’t matter because it’s still Shakespeare, right? And that’s, like, the pinnacle of theater.” 

They spend the remainder of their lunch chatting about the plays they would love to perform in at some point in their careers. 

They’re returning to the stage when Tim’s phone vibrates in his jeans pocket. 

 **Brian:** Hey, still in rehearsal? 

 **Tim:** Yep 

 **Brian:** Call me when you’re done.

 **Tim:** OK 

* * * *

Before heading home, Tim pauses on the sidewalk just outside the theater’s entrance to call Brian. 

“Hey Brian.” 

“Tim, hi. I want to give you a heads up about something. It could be nothing, but it may be cause for concern. In any event, I thought I should let you know. I got a call from my friend, Adeline, you know, she owns Beurre, the French bistro?” 

“Uh-huh.” He pinches the bag strap draped across his chest between his thumb and index finger, absentmindedly sliding his fingertips along the textured material. He wants to wrap the conversation up quickly so he can go home and get ready to meet Armie. His thoughts drift to his wardrobe and he wishes it were fall so he could wear one of the many stylish jackets he’s collected from designers over the past year. But it’s still too hot, even in the evening. 

“A reporter called her today asking about your date with Lily last weekend —”

“Dinner,” Tim interjects. 

“Pardon me?” 

“You said date, it wasn’t a date, just dinner with a friend.” 

Brian sighs. He’s really not in the mood to argue about semantics. 

“Right, dinner. Anyway, the reporter wanted to know if you guys had actually dined there, how long you stayed, if you paid for the meal —”

“Wait, what?” 

Brian ignores Tim’s second interruption and continues, “Basically, any details she could share. Adeline didn’t tell him anything. Obviously, he was following up on the _Celeb_ _Weekly_ piece that posted today.” 

“Hold on,” he frowns. “What _Celeb_ _Weekly_ piece?” 

“About the dinner? I told you this was coming, Tim. Nicole and I arranged for the magazine to do an exclusive write-up about your date with Lily and I gave them a couple of quotes about how happy you guys looked. Basic stuff.”

Tim certainly doesn’t remember Brian telling him anything about this. In fact, he barely recalls the dinner at all. He’d been riding high from his talk with Armie earlier that afternoon and fantasizing about their Yankees game date the following day. 

“Sorry, Brian. Maybe I’m missing something, because I’m not getting why is this a problem. Isn’t more press coverage a good thing?” Tim asks. 

“Usually, yes. But there was something about this guy that seems a little off to me. From the way he asked questions, Adeline got the feeling he doubted you guys had been there. _That_ makes me uneasy,” Brian explains. “If he believes the story was fake, he might think you and Lily are fake, and that could be a very big problem for us.” 

“Who does this guy work for?” 

“That’s the other issue. He works for Buzzbeat, which employs people who actually went to journalism school and who interview multiple, sometimes conflicting sources and dig into every aspect of a story when they’re reporting it. Not like the sycophants at the tabloids who basically publish anything a publicist or agent tells them,” he sneers. 

“What’s his name? Do you know him?” 

“I’m not familiar with him. But I texted Nicole, since she’s more likely to know who he is. His last name is unusual…hold on I have it written down,” Brian says, rummaging among the papers stacked on his desk. He pulls a neon green Post-It from beneath a contract he needs to review. “Ah, here it is. Hammer.” 

Tim almost drops his beloved pink iPhone. “What’s his first name?” he croaks. 

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Apparently, he goes by the initials, A.D.,” Brian replies. “That’s what he told Adeline and he uses A.D. Hammer in his byline.”

Suddenly, Tim’s heart is beating rapidly and he feels lightheaded and nauseous. He crouches next to the building so that if he faints, he won’t have far to fall — less chance of cracking his skull on this filthy patch of Manhattan pavement. He doesn’t know Armie’s middle name, but how many A. Hammers could be living in New York City? When Armie had given him his name to put on the club’s guest list, they’d joked about how improbable the moniker is — baking soda came up, so did Bay Area rap legend MC Hammer. 

“Tim? Are you still there?” 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Look, Brian I have to go. Let me know what you find out about this guy, OK? Bye.” 

He disconnects the call before Brian has an opportunity to respond. His hands are trembling and clammy when he types out a text. 

 **Sweet T:** hey, what’s your middle name? 

 **Armie:** Holy random question Batman! It’s Douglas. Why?

 **Sweet T:** just wondering, mine is Hal btw

 **Armie:** As in Prince Hal? That’s pretty method to change your name to match a character, isn’t it Tim?

 **Sweet T:** yeah, well i’m committed 

 **Armie:** Good to know. Are we still meeting at the theater? 

 **Sweet T:** why don’t you come to my place and we’ll go from there if that’s all right? 

 **Armie:** Sure, see you around 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor clueless Armie has no idea what he's walking into. The next chapter may take a while longer since it will be dialogue heavy and that's not my strong suit! (Well, I don't really have a strong suit tbh).


	11. No More Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie tries to explain and Tim feels betrayed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a song by 80s band Berlin. This one takes a few turns.

Against his better judgement, Tim has a glass of wine when he gets home from the theater. He knows he should be sober when he talks to Armie, but he needs something to take the edge off, to calm his frazzled nerves.  

He’s spent the past hour sipping Pinot Noir and reliving every interaction and conversation he’s had with Armie, trying to figure out if he missed any signs that the older man was not who he claimed to be. He also reads a few of Armie’s Buzzbeat articles — an eclectic mix of clickbait, celebrity profiles, pop culture trend pieces and a few reported features on the entertainment industry. Tim finds Armie’s writing sharp and insightful, even when the subject matter is frivolous.  

Sighing, he rolls the nearly empty glass between his palms and thinks about what he’s going to say. Tim abhors conflict and confrontation makes him profoundly uncomfortable. That’s not to say he’s a pushover. He can and will stand up for himself. Right now, he’s confused and deeply hurt by Armie’s deception. There’s anger too, simmering just below the surface. He steels himself when the buzzer sounds.

When Tim opens the door, Armie leans in to give him the hug and kiss on the cheek that has become their customary greeting. He’s perplexed when Tim flinches and dodges the embrace.

“Please come in and have a seat,” Tim says cooly, moving aside so Armie can step into the apartment. 

Armie’s eyes sweep over Tim’s outfit. He’s wearing a stretched out T-shirt, droopy sweatpants that pool around his ankles and striped blue-and-white socks without shoes. Armie’s scalp tingles unpleasantly as a sense of foreboding washes over him. Something is wrong. He glances at his watch. 

“I think we better head out if we’re going to make the 7:45 showing,” he says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward the front door. 

“Yeah, we’re not going to make it,” Tim shrugs. He crosses the living room, plops down in the butter yellow armchair beneath the window and looks up expectantly at Armie. His face is pale and drawn.

Heart hammering in his chest, Armie perches tentatively on the edge of the sofa, muscles tense and poised for flight. 

“Have I done something to upset you?” he asks warily.

Tim snorts derisively.

“Were you ever going to tell me the truth Armie?”

“The truth about what? I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” he replies, swallowing the bile rising in the back of his throat. 

Although the window-mounted air conditioning unit is providing little relief from the stifling heat in the apartment, a chill spreads across Armie’s body, raising goosebumps along the exposed skin on his forearms. _He can’t possibly know._  

Tim cocks his head to one side and studies him for a moment. With mounting alarm, Armie notes the change in his eyes— all traces of honeyed amber and warm gold have vanished, leaving behind rings of pure green, cold and hard as emeralds.  

“You know, it’s funny, the photo that appears with your byline doesn’t do you justice,” Tim chuckles bitterly, crossing his thin arms over his chest. “I really didn’t think it was possible for you to take an unflattering picture Armie, but somehow your employer managed it.”

Armie blanches. His mouth opens and closes several times, but no words come out. It takes a moment before his racing mind can form a coherent sentence. 

“Tim, please, I can explain —” he pleads.

“Oh, I hope so. I really want to understand what the actual fuck is going on here Armie, because the only thing I know for sure is you’ve been lying to me since the day we met.”

Armie licks his lips. “OK. As you apparently know, I’m a reporter for Buzzbeat. Right now I have an assignment, I mean, I’m working on a story that kind of involves … you…” his voice falters.

Tim narrows his eyes and a muscle twitches in his jaw. 

Armie presses ahead, resolved to tell everything now that his secret has been revealed. 

“Based on paparazzi photos of you and Lily-Rose Depp, my editor is convinced the two of you aren’t actually dating. She wants me to prove,” he draws a shuddering breath,“to prove your relationship is fake.” 

He expects Tim to yell or rage, to curse at him. He’s wholly unprepared for the silence that greets his confession. The only sounds in the apartment are the droning hum of the air conditioner and the thumping bass blasting from the open windows of a passing car on the street below. Tim stares blankly, his face an inscrutable mask.

“And how were you going to do that?” he asks finally, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees. 

“Well, I…I never actually formulated much of a plan beyond getting to know you,” Armie admits sheepishly. 

Tim nods. “So this,” he motions between them, “was just a ploy to get close to me so you could out me and expose me as a closeted fraud?”

“No, Tim, no! I’d never do that to you, I swear.”

“Jesus Armie, are you even gay or were you lying about that too? Nice touch with the intolerant evangelical parents and the traumatic coming out story, by the way, that added authenticity. On the other hand, as a _writer_ I’d hope you could come up with a backstory that wasn’t such a fucking cliché,” he scoffs.  

Realization quickly dawns on him. “Oh God, is that why you wanted to take things slowly with the physical stuff? You’re straight, right, and you only kissed me because you were literally getting paid to?” 

Groaning, Tim buries his face in his hands. He feels dirty and used. This confirms his worst fears, that a guy like Armie would never be interested in him. _I’m such a fucking idiot._

Armie kneels in front of him and tries to take one of Tim’s delicate hands in his own. 

“No, Tim, please listen to me—”

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he hisses, recoiling. 

Armie raises his hands and retreats until he’s sitting on the floor with his back against the sofa, arms resting atop his bent knees. He realizes this is going horribly. Maya urged him to prepare for this conversation, but he thought he had more time. He regroups and gathers his thoughts. Tim may hate him and never speak to him again, but Armie can’t let him believe his feelings aren’t genuine.

“Alright, sorry. But you have to believe me. I _am_ gay and everything I told you about my family, where I grew up, how I was raised, where I went to college — all of that is true. 

“And the last thing I was supposed to do when I was working on this bullshit story was get romantically involved with you. In addition to, you know, don’t plagiarize or make shit up, keep relationships with sources entirely professional is a central tenet of journalism,” Armie explains. 

“I broke that rule and basically jeopardized my job because I like you _so much_ , Tim. Spending time with you, kissing you, touching you, god, that was … everything,” he says earnestly. 

“You expect me to believe that when you were going to sell me out?” Tim fumes. “I’m young Armie, but I’m not that goddamn naive.” 

“It’s true!” Armie insists.“I know I fucked up and I’m truly sorry, Tim. I never meant to hurt you.”

Tim rolls his eyes. 

“Look, my editor wanted to use you as an example in a broader story examining how bigotry in the movie industry forces gay actors into the closet and pushes them into fake relationships,” he adds. “But I was _never_ going to out you. In fact, I was trying to find a way to do the story without including your situation at all.” 

“My situation?” Tim furrows his brow. 

“With Depp.” 

“Wait, you also think I’m not dating Lily?” 

Armie raises an eyebrow. “Are you? Really dating her? Because from what I’ve seen, it always looks like you two are putting on a show for the photographers, and a pretty unconvincing one at that, I might add.”

Tim wants to wipe the smirk off Armie’s gorgeous face. 

“I’m bi remember, Armie?” he frowns, fingering the thin silver chain around his throat. “That means I can date both of you.”

“Oh, I’m aware. But to quote my editor, you guys seem ‘fake as fuck,’ sorry. Zero chemistry and no passion. Since we’re being honest with each other here, just admit it, Tim. I don’t know if you’re doing this for publicity or to throw the Hollywood homophobes off your trail, but it’s clear to anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of body language that you’re not into her at all.

“Remember, I know how you look when you’re hopelessly lost in a kiss,” his voice drops to a husky whisper.

“Fuck you,” Tim retorts, but the words lack heat. He scowls, embarrassed by the blush spreading across his cheeks and annoyed that, despite everything, Armie’s words have the desired effect.

“My relationship with Lily is none of your business," he clears his throat. "You lied to me, used me and betrayed my trust, so there’s nothing left to say. I’d like you to leave now.” 

Tim is half way across the room before he realizes Armie hasn’t moved from his spot on the floor. 

“So, you’re just going to act like you’re totally fucking blameless in all this Tim? Like you’ve been completely honest with me?” Armie asks, pale blue eyes flashing with anger. 

“The fuck does that mean?” 

“I admit that what I did was terrible. I never should have lied to you about my job. Then, when we decided to pursue this … attraction or connection, whatever you want to call it, between us I should have told you the truth. I take full responsibility—”

“Well, that’s big of you,” Tim grumbles. 

Armie talks over him, “ — but what about you? You told me you were going to your parents’ place for dinner last weekend, instead you were snuggled up with Depp.” 

“For fuck’s sake, her name is Lily! Why do you keep calling her Depp?” he explodes, spreading his arms wide in exasperation.

“It’s a journalism thing, we call people by their surnames,” Armie shrugs. 

“I see. You abide by the ethics and practices of your profession when referring to someone in casual conversation but not when you’re deceiving and seducing a so-called source?” Tim shakes his head in disgust. “So, you’re a liar and a fucking hypocrite? Awesome.” 

“Excuse me? Seducing?” Armie stands and quickly closes the distance between them. 

He points a thick finger at the younger man. “Don’t act like you’re some kind of wide-eyed innocent, Tim. You asked me out first and you almost kissed me in the club that night. We both wanted everything that’s happened between us. Anyway, you’re deflecting.” 

Staring each other down without flinching, Armie clenches his jaw and Tim's nostrils flare.

“OK,” Tim says, smiling tightly. “The dinner with Lily was already arranged and I didn’t have a choice about whether to go. I didn’t tell you about it because it didn’t mean anything, so it was just easier to say I would be with my parents. We both know that’s _nothing_ compared to what you fucking did.

“And yeah, we’re pretending to date because my agent is worried that some bigwig studio assholes think I’m a fey little twink who can’t carry a movie. Is that what you want to hear, Armie? Are you going to run to your boss now and tell her she was right?” he shouts, his chest heaving.

Armie sighs. “No, Tim. I’m not going to tell her. I would never intentionally hurt your career. I’d quit that fucking job before I’d let that happen.” 

Stunned, Tim searches his face for any sign Armie is bluffing. Seeing none, he nods once.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

Deflated, Tim slumps against the wall and trains his eyes on a tiny hole in the toe of the sock on his left foot. 

“You know Armie, I haven’t met anyone I wanted to date in a long time. I mean, I’ve hooked up with guys, but I never wanted more than that. Then we met and I thought, maybe you were who I’d been waiting for all this time.

“If you had been honest with me, we could have tried to make this work. My agent won’t let me be out right now and I agreed to keep up this charade with Lily for the time being, but I’m also going to have a fucking private life. If that means having a relationship with a guy, my team will just have to suck it up.”

“We could keep seeing each other. I’ll tell my editor my plan to uncover the truth about you and De …uh, Lily failed. I’ll do the bigger story and move on from the topic of fake celebrity couples,” Armie says earnestly. 

Tim’s lips twist into a grimace. “It’s too late, Armie.” 

“No, it can’t be. Tell me how I can fix this.”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Tim, I’m begging you, please don’t do this to us,” Armie’s voice cracks.

“You did this to us, Armie,” he says in a small voice. He pushes off the wall, walks over to the front door and holds it open. 

Armie stares after him for a moment before following. Standing at the threshold, Tim reaches up and lightly caresses Armie’s cheek. Tim wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight embrace. With one large hand, Armie cradles his head while the other grips Tim at the waist. When they reluctantly pull apart, Armie brushes Tim’s curls back and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. 

“Take care, Tim.” 

“Bye, Armie.” 

Armie thinks he hears a choked sob from the other side of the closed door. He blinks away the tears in his eyes as he slowly makes his way down the narrow hallway. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still with me? I'm sorry for this one, but have faith in them.


	12. First Move Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie braces for the spotlight and Tim mopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a couple of flashbacks to fill in the gaps of what happened between Tim and Armie before everything imploded. I hope they work!

“So, have you heard anything from Armie?” Matt asks, his gaze focused on the television. 

Tim cuts his eyes at his friend. “No, not a word. And I don’t expect to.” 

“Hmmph,” Matt grunts. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“What’s what supposed to mean, Timo? It was just a question.” 

Instead of responding, Tim turns his attention back to the episode of _Brooklyn Nine-Nine_ they’re watching. It’s a weeknight and the friends are at Tim’s place gorging on Chinese food and bingeing episodes of their favorite comedies. 

“It’s just that it’s been a few weeks and, I don’t know, I thought he might have reached out to you by now, that’s all,” Matt shrugs. 

“Well, he hasn’t,” Tim snaps, repeatedly stabbing a pair of chopsticks into the takeout container of broccoli beef he’s holding. His appetite has all but disappeared. 

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Seriously, Matt? Miss me with the amateur psychoanalysis OK?” he sighs, rolling his eyes. 

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. He's quiet for a moment, then adds, “You do sound kinda upset though, Tim.” 

“Yeah, no. This is me being not the least bit upset.”  

Matt hides his grin behind the forkful of noodles he stuffs in his mouth, chewing loudly. “Uh-huh, right. Forgive me, man, but I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that.” 

Tim scowls. 

“See, I remember you gushing about all the stuff you guys have in common, about Armie’s intellect and sense of humor and how much fun you had hanging out and talking. Not to mention that you really wanted to tap that ass,” Matt snickers. “I’m betting those feelings didn’t just evaporate overnight.” 

“Yeah, well you know what he did. None of that other stuff matters anymore.” 

“He lied to you and I’m not trying to excuse that or downplay how disappointing and hurtful it must be, Timo. Trust and honesty form the bedrock of any healthy relationship, no doubt. Here’s the thing, though, people make mistakes and sometimes they _really_ fuck up. But that doesn’t mean they’re irredeemable or they don’t deserve second chances.” 

Tim opens his mouth to respond but Matt holds up a hand, cutting him off. “Dude, just think about it. I can see that you’re miserable. Ask yourself if what Armie did is truly unforgivable. I don’t know, maybe you absolutely think it is. If the answer is no though, you might consider calling or texting him.” 

“Why the fuck should I have to make the first move? I’m not the one who betrayed the person I claimed to care so much about.” 

Smiling, Matt shakes his head. “That’s exactly why it has to be you, man. He probably thinks you want nothing to do with him.”

“Maybe he’s right,” he grumbles, even though that’s not entirely true. 

The first week after the argument with Armie, he had buried his heartache and sorrow in favor of nursing his anger. He was certain he had made the right decision to cut Armie out of his life, cleanly and surgically, like a tumor. He wallowed in the righteous purity of his pain. As the days wore on, though, Tim’s ire waned, longing rekindled and the wound failed to heal. Often, he found himself replaying their late-night talks and torrid kisses; flirty banter and shared laughter. 

_Tim, who was curled up on the loveseat with his head in Armie’s lap, described his difficult early adolescent years when his scrawny body, awkwardness and penchant for dropping French words into conversation made him a favorite target for middle school bullies._

_“It was just hard you know,” he sighed. “I loved school, but it became kind of a scary place that made me anxious all the time.”_

_Armie gently stroked his hair, letting the silky strands slide through his fingers. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Tim. Did you tell your parents? Or school administrators?”_

_“Nah. I figured that would just make it worse. Eventually, they tired of tormenting me and moved on to somebody else. High school was better, though. Everyone there was focused on developing their craft, whether it was music, acting or dance, so there was less interest in fucking with people.”_

_Tim took Armie’s free hand, entwined their fingers and rested their clasped hands on his chest. “What about you? Any problems with bullies?”_

_“I was nearly six feet tall by the eighth grade, so no one bothered me, even though I was a little pudgy,” Armie laughed._

_“Pudgy? I don’t believe it.”_

_“Yep. Lucky for me, I kept growing and my baby fat just kind of melted away.”_

_“Mmmm…I’m the lucky one,” he purred, squeezing Armie’s sculpted bicep. “How tall are you anyway?”_

_“Six-foot-five.”_

_“Fuck.”_

_“Do you like that I’m tall? Does that do it for you?”_

_“God, you have no idea,” Tim said, before kissing him hungrily, his tongue slipping into Armie’s mouth._

By the third week, Tim found himself hopefully checking his phone for texts that never materialized and swallowing the bitter disappointment lodged in his throat. 

“If Armie wants another chance he’ll have to ask for it,” he declares. 

* * * *

Armie gnaws on a ragged cuticle and watches Lauren closely while she reads his story. After everything fell apart with Tim, Armie had convinced her they would undercut the seriousness of what was shaping up to be an illuminating and damning piece about sexuality and toxic masculinity in Hollywood if it included unseemly innuendo about Timothée Chalamet’s love life. Their goal, Armie argued, should be exposing bigotry in the film and television industry, not putting an actor on blast for perhaps doing what he believed was necessary to have a career within the current rotten system.

Lauren, whom Armie had decided was strangely obsessed with Tim and Lily, reluctantly agreed to drop that angle once he secured a few more on-the-record sources including two popular closeted actors who had played the fake relationship game, a publicist and several studio executives. All of them had requested anonymity, but their experiences and insights lent credibility to the story. 

She looks up, removes her glasses and rubs her eyes. When Lauren focuses on Armie she smiles widely. 

“You fucking did it Armie! It’s brilliant. Needs some polishing here and there and I still want you to say more about the way queer actors and actresses are treated differently, but this is a solid story. I’m going to meet with our communications team so they can put together a plan that ensures we maximize our publicity opportunities. Get your best suit dry cleaned, my friend, because I guarantee that TV is going to be all over this and you’ll be in high demand for interviews.” 

“TV? You really think so?” This is unexpected and Armie’s not sure how comfortable he is with the prospect of a media blitz. 

“This story has everything — sex, celebrities, intrigue, gossip, villainous industry types. TV is gonna eat this up!” she squeals. 

Even though he’s wary of a full PR push, Lauren’s enthusiasm is infectious and he can’t help feeling warmed by her praise. 

“So, do you think you can finish it by Friday? That should give us time to have legal sign off and plan a roll-out strategy for the week after next.” 

“I’m on it,” Armie says, rising from his seat. 

“Excellent!” When he reaches the door she continues, “Armie, this was a difficult assignment and I gave you a hard time about it, but this is really great work — nuanced, thoughtful, meticulously researched and reported. I know you put a lot of time and effort into this one and it shows.” 

He nods, cheeks coloring a bit. “Thanks, Lauren.”

* * * *

Armie is cooking dinner when Maya gets home from work. 

“This smells delicious,” she says, peering into the simmering pot of lentils, potatoes, cauliflower and kabocha squash. “Bless you, Armie, I’m starving.” 

He laughs and pulls a couple of dishes from the cabinet. “Go get changed, it’s almost finished.” 

By the time Maya returns dressed in cotton shorts and a tank top, Armie is ladling the dal into bowls. They settle on the couch with their feet up on the coffee table and turn on the news. 

“How was your day?” he asks. 

“Mmmm… so good.” 

“Yeah, what happened?” 

“No, not my day, that was complete shit. I meant this,” Maya says, lifting her bowl. “Ugh, I met with my clients who are fighting illegal eviction. You remember, the case where the landlord is trying to toss them out so he can renovate the units and jack up the rent?” 

“In Harlem?” 

“That’s the one. The tenants told me today the asshole is slow-walking repairs, so they’re dealing with broken air conditioners and faulty refrigerators among other indignities. This gives us a stronger case, but it’s utter bullshit because he’s doing this to wear them down so they’ll give up and move. Little does he know, that’s not gonna happen.

“How about you? Did you have to stop the metaphorical presses because Justin Bieber went out with his hair combed for the first time this year?” 

“You’re hilarious. Really, you should have your own comedy special on Netflix,” Armie deadpans. Maya giggles with delight. 

“Actually, Lauren read my second draft of the story and she likes it. I have to tweak a few things, then she’ll give it another edit before we hand it over to the lawyers. The funny thing is, she thinks I’m going to get requests to go on TV and talk about it.” 

He gives his spoon a final lick and sets the empty bowl on the end table. 

“That's amazing!” she exclaims before noticing his pained expression. “Why are you looking like that would be a bad thing? It would be great exposure for the story and for you, right?” 

“Yeah, but I’ve never been interviewed on TV before. What if I’m a rambling, sweaty disaster?” 

“If only you knew someone who has experience going on talk shows who could give you some advice …” she taps her finger against her lips with mock seriousness.

“Shut up.” 

“Armie!” Maya playfully shoves his shoulder. “You’re miserable and you miss him. This gives you the perfect excuse to contact him.” 

“Sure, I’m supposed to just call him out of the blue and say, ‘Oh hey Tim, I know you hate me, but I’m going on CNN and I could use a few pointers.’ Please, May.” 

“You might not want to open with that, but why not call him? At least asking for his help might be a way to thaw the deep freeze you two are stuck in right now. And stop being dramatic, I’m sure he doesn’t hate you.” 

“You didn’t see him after I told him everything. He was super pissed —”

“Which, let me remind you, he had every right to be — hey, don’t give me that look! From what you said, though, he was also sad, which he wouldn’t have been if he didn’t truly care about you and the premature demise of your blossoming relationship.

“Besides, if you call you can tell him you kept your word and left him out of the story.”  

“Whatever. I’m not calling.” 

Armie collects their dishes and stalks into the kitchen. He’s washing the bowls when he remembers the last time he was at Tim’s place. Well, the time before he fucked it all up.  

_They were standing so close in Tim’s tiny kitchen that their elbows and hips bumped as they cleaned up after dinner._

_“Where was the best vacation you’ve ever had?” Tim asked, handing Armie a dripping plate to dry._

_“Two weeks last summer in Italy.”_

_“Ooh, where? I spent a couple of months in northern Italy two years ago filming Call Me By Your Name.”_

_“We visited Rome, Venice, Florence and the Amalfi coast. It was beautiful.”_

_“Did you go with Maya?”_

_“Uh, no,” Armie turned his back to stack the plates in an upper cupboard, “with my ex.”_

_“Oh.” Tim wasn’t sure what to say. The only thing Armie had shared about his former boyfriend was that he wasn’t a fan of hip hop._

_Armie sighed. “The trip was supposed to be an opportunity to rekindle the flame after a difficult period in our relationship. He had, um, cheated on me.”_

_“He cheated on you?!” Tim squeaked, incredulous. “Why would…how could anyone cheat on you, Armie?”_

_He shrugged and averted his eyes._

_Tim wiped his hands on his jeans, stepped behind Armie and looped his arms tightly around his waist. He pressed his cheek to his broad back and whispered, “You didn’t deserve that, you know that, right? You’re such a good person Armie, he’s a fool to have hurt you and taken you for granted.”_

_His heart clenched painfully. “I’m not a good person, Tim.”_

_“Yes, you are.” He squeezed between Armie and the counter and held his face with both hands. “You are.”_

_Tim had kissed him slowly, tenderly, reverently._

* * * *

“I think I’m going to have the spicy miso pork ramen,” Lily says, setting her menu aside. 

Tim chooses the chicken. Once they’ve ordered, Lily glances out the window toward the photographer concealed behind a SUV across the street. They are half way through their monthly paparazzi outing and she is eager for it to be over because Tim is in a pissy mood. 

“So, how are rehearsals going?”  

“Good.” 

Under the table she digs her fingernails into her thigh. “Did I tell you my film is showing at San Sebastían? You’ll be there for _Beautiful Boy_ , no?” 

“Uh-huh,” Tim replies, idly folding the wrapper from his straw into an accordion shape. 

Lily wants to scream at him. She'd rather not be here either, but her agent has said she needs to raise her profile in the U.S. if she wants to break into Hollywood. Dating the Oscar-nominated young actor with whom every auteur filmmaker wants to work should help Lily reach her goal, or so her team says. 

She’d rather be shopping or having coffee with friends. Instead, she’s stuck with Tim, who is uncharacteristically sullen and half-heartedly going through the motions of their lovey-dovey act today. 

“Has Brian said anything about whether we’re supposed to be seen together publicly while we’re there? I know they don’t want us to walk the red carpet yet, but I wonder if they’ll arrange a ‘romantic’ dinner or something?” 

“Ah, I doubt it. I think they want to keep this farce separate from our professional obligations for now,” he says. Tim drums his fingers impatiently on the table and looks around the small restaurant hoping to see the waitress bringing their lunch. 

“Oh, right. I guess that makes sense.” Her eyes are vacant, her smile strained.

Tim pulls his phone from his pocket when it vibrates.

 **Matt:** Hey, Armie’s story posted today. 

 **Tim:** yeah? 

 **Matt:** It’s actually pretty good. 

 **Matt:** Spoiler alert —He doesn’t mention you or Lily. 

 **Matt:** www.buzzbeat.com/2018/8/15/showmance-hollywood-gay

 **Tim:** thanks, man.

Even though he had believed Armie when he said he wouldn’t out him or compromise his career in any way, Tim is relieved. He’ll read it later, when he’s alone. 

He looks up at Lily, who is focused on her phone, the corners of her mouth turned down. Tim knows he hasn’t been fair to her today; after all, it’s not her fault that everything with Armie is so fucked up and he doesn't know how to make things right.

“Hey, tell me more about the project you’re working on next,” he says, smiling genuinely for the first time all day.

 


	13. Bombshell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie is the toast of the town and Tim shines.

Armie’s story lands like a bomb, sending shockwaves through studio backlots, talent agencies and public relations firms across Los Angeles.

The Human Rights Campaign and GLAAD issue scathing statements denouncing Hollywood for practicing bigotry and promoting a one-dimensional version of masculinity — characterized by brawn, stoicism and emotional reticence — that hurts men and women alike.

Naturally, the article goes viral — under the hashtag #BadShowmance — and readers parse every line searching for clues to the identities of the unnamed gay actors quoted in the story. Actors, politicians and social justice activists flock to Twitter and Instagram to decry the practices described in the story and offer support and encouragement to actors who may want to come out of the closet but fear damaging their careers.  

The tabloids, of course, have a field day. Some simply summarize Armie’s piece without adding any original reporting, while the more celebrity-friendly outlets act as mouthpieces for a deeply rattled entertainment industry scrambling to do damage control. 

As Lauren predicted, Armie fields a flood of interview requests from a slew of media outlets including CNN, MSNBC, NPR, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Out magazine and the network morning shows.

* * * *

Armie is sipping a bottle of water in the green room backstage at _The Daily Show_ and scrolling through Twitter, where people are still buzzing about his story several days after it was published. Chuckling, he scoffs at some of the improbable guesses for the closeted actors he interviewed including serial model-dater Leonardo DiCaprio, George Clooney and the two dudes on _Supernatural_.

Tim comes up occasionally too, which sends a chill down Armie’s spine. Although he wants to speak up and clear his name, so to speak, Armie knows he can’t do so without raising suspicion. 

The ‘Lilothee’ true believers push back hard, though— insisting the young couple is the embodiment of true love and relationship goals. For once, Armie is thankful Tim has a fake girlfriend to shield him, at least partially, from the rumors swirling around his sexuality. 

A sharp knock on the door jolts him out of his reverie. 

“Hi Armie, welcome and thank you for coming on the show. You doing OK?” asks a smiling young woman holding a clipboard and wearing a headset. 

“Yes, I’m great, thanks for inviting me,” he replies, shaking her outstretched hand. 

“Excellent. I’m Amy, one of the producers, and I just want to take a minute to go over a few things with you before you go on,” she says briskly. “You’re probably familiar with Trevor’s style, but he prefers to keep his interviews pretty relaxed and conversational and tries to inject a little humor when appropriate. Although it seems the entire Internet is obsessed with figuring out whom you talked to, Trevor won’t ask you to reveal your sources. I can tell you that he was fascinated with your story and he’s really looking forward to discussing it. That’s about it, do you have any questions?” 

“No, I think I’m all set.” 

“OK, just relax and try to have fun. I’ll come get you in about 10 minutes.”

 **Maya:** Hey, did they give you any swag? 

 **Armie:** Yep, coffee mugs, fancy water bottle, hoodie, candy, tote bag, a blanket (wtf?)

 **Maya:** Calling dibs on the tote. How do you feel? 

 **Armie:** Pretty good.

 **Maya:** You’re a pro at this TV stuff now, you’ll be great! 

 **Armie:** Thanks, babe. 

 **Maya:** If you have an opportunity during a commercial break, show TN that hot photo of me from Zora’s bday party and slip him my number. 😘

 **Armie:** So not gonna do that! 🙄

 **Maya:** Ugh, you’re the worst wingman. Have fun, love ya! 

“For decades, professional and amateur gossips have speculated about whether high-profile celebrity couplings are genuine or arranged for publicity,” Trevor Noah reads from a teleprompter. 

“But an explosive new Buzzbeat story reveals a dark side to these so-called showmances. Please welcome reporter Armie Hammer who will share what he learned about the ways Hollywood, whose denizens are known for their liberal political leanings, continues to discriminate against gay actors despite advances in LGBTQ civil rights and wider social acceptance of same-sex relationships.” 

To Armie’s surprise, the audience cheers enthusiastically when he walks out on stage. 

* * * *

Tim is glad he’s watching alone because he actually gasps when Armie emerges from the wings wearing a tailored, cornflower blue suit and patterned ivory shirt sans tie. He looks fresh, stylish and almost unbearably handsome. 

It’s been a month since he ushered Armie through the front door and out of his life, and suddenly he’s back in Tim’s living room, in full HD glory —  piercing blue eyes, strong jaw, golden skin, perfectly coiffed hair (Tim admires his shorter cut) and dazzling white teeth. 

Matt had given him the heads up that Armie would appear on the show that evening and Tim had set his DVR to record the program, a fortuitous decision since he only focuses on Armie’s flawless face and rich baritone while watching the live broadcast. When the segment ends, Tim realizes he was so caught up in gawking he hadn’t actually processed what Armie was saying. He replays the interview and marvels at how articulate, composed and confident Armie appears. 

He finds himself reaching for his phone to fire off a congratulatory text before he remembers, with a twinge of regret, that they aren’t speaking. Instead, he searches YouTube for clips of Armie’s previous television appearances, content for now to drown himself in video.  

* * * *

“We’ll fly up to Toronto two weeks from today, on the morning of September 6,” Brian explains, reviewing the schedule. “On Friday afternoon, you’ll join Steve, Amy and Felix to do some press before the premiere that evening. There will be a Q&A immediately following the screening and then the afterparty. Got all that?” 

“Yep, sounds good,” Tim replies. 

Given the drastic weight loss and other physical demands Tim endured for the role, the _Beautiful Boy_ shoot had been grueling. Although he’s nervous about the reception from critics, he’s excited for audiences to see the Sheffs’ remarkable, inspiring story of addiction, recovery and redemption. 

Brian clicks out of his calendar and opens the tab with Armie’s piece. 

“So, we never discussed that Buzzbeat article…” he trails off. 

Tim’s eyes widen and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “That was something, right?” 

“I wonder if the reporter planned to include anything about you and Lily in the story, since he was sniffing around your dinner date?” 

Tim nervously fiddles with the chunky silver bracelet on his left wrist and shrugs. “Yeah, I don’t know.” 

“At any rate, whatever he was up to, I’m relieved it appears we dodged that bullet,” Brian declares, turning back to his laptop. 

“I saw him, that guy Hammer, the other night on _The Daily Show_ ,” Tim pipes up, unable to stop himself, even though he knows the smart thing to do would be to drop this topic. “He seems really intelligent, well-spoken, thoughtful—”

_Rein it in Timmy before you give Brian a reason to ask questions._

“— and I thought the story was quite good, actually. You know, it was fair, but it certainly didn’t pull any punches,” _Jesus,_ _stop talking_ , “and it has sparked a national conversation about the industry’s culpability in promoting toxic masculinity and homophobia.” 

He blinks at Brian, who is watching him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. 

“Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought, Tim.” 

“Well, I think I’ve been clear that I’m not thrilled about this stunt with Lily —”

“You have,” Brian interjects. 

“— and pretending to be straight,” he continues,“so I guess I took a personal interest in the article, that’s all. Do you think it will change anything?” 

Brian folds his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair. 

“It’s hard to say. Look at it this way, on the one hand, the #MeToo movement has brought down some heavy-hitters, but changing attitudes and affecting systemic change is much more difficult than weeding out the worst abusers. 

“Likewise, the belief that audiences won’t accept gay actors as romantic leads or action heroes is so widespread in Hollywood, I’m not sure that even if we could remove a handful of the most bigoted or resistant studio execs, producers and casting directors, things would change much. Above all else, the industry responds to money.” 

“Well, maybe someone, say a young Oscar nominee who’s been hailed as the ‘best actor of his generation,’ should challenge the conventional wisdom,” he says, quirking his lips up into an impish grin so his manager assumes he’s joking. In reality, Tim is quite serious. 

“Don’t even _think_ about it,” Brian laughs. 

* * * *

Armie pulls the baseball cap low on his forehead and scrunches down in his seat at the rear of the theater. On the off chance the cast might peek out from backstage to watch the audience file in for the Saturday afternoon preview performance, Armie had waited in the lobby until the lights dimmed before taking his seat. In the semi-darkness, he smooths the slightly wrinkled program against his thighs and stares at Tim’s headshot, a recent photo that shows how much his bowl cut has grown out.

When the lights come up, Tim sits at a desk in what appears to be his character’s childhood bedroom. His ‘mother' enters without knocking, setting off a blistering, two-hour exploration of an ordinary man’s descent into racial hatred and violence. 

Armie has watched _Call Me By Your Name_ a handful of times. Since meeting Tim, he’s also seen _Miss Stevens_. Neither performance, as superlative as they are, prepares him for the transformation unfolding onstage as sweet, kind-hearted Timothée Chalamet fully and convincingly embodies a broken young man full of rage, enmity and self-loathing. Armie is transfixed. 

One cast member flubs a line and there are a couple of staging miscues, but Tim is sublime, earning a rousing standing ovation from the audience. Armie claps and cheers from his seat, afraid his height will betray him. After three curtain calls, the house lights come up and an emotionally drained Armie staggers out into the late afternoon sun. 

* * * *

“As most of you know, Armie and I have known each other since we were 19,” Maya says, holding her drink aloft in one hand, with her other arm wrapped around his waist. “We’ve been through a lot together — bad boyfriends, bad jobs, bad credit.” 

Laughter ripples through the group. “No matter how hard things were, though, we always had each other. The past couple of years since we moved to New York have been … challenging at times,” she glances at Armie, who nods. 

“But things are turning around. First, I’m so happy Armie’s talent as a reporter and writer is finally being recognized and I predict that this year will be a turning point in his journalism career. And second, I think he will find the fulfilling, exciting, life-changing, true love he’s searching for if he would just swallow his pride and take a leap of faith.”

Maya is being purposely cryptic, but Armie knows exactly what — and whom — she’s talking about. She answers his warning scowl with an affectionate smile.

“OK, so raise your glasses everyone and join me in wishing a very happy 27th birthday to my best friend, platonic soulmate and partner in crime!” 

Their friends, including Justin, with whom Armie has reconciled, cheer and toast. He hugs Maya tightly and kisses her on the cheek. 

“Thanks everyone for coming out tonight to help me celebrate,” Armie mumbles, embarrassed to be the center of attention. He accepts hugs, handshakes and slaps on the back. Someone hands him another whiskey; someone else passes him a joint. 

Armie wanders out to the patio at the rear of the bar and sits by himself for a moment. Feeling tipsy, sentimental and wistful, he sends Tim a barrage of texts.  

 **Armie:** Tim, hi. It’s Armie. Saw your play today, you were phenomenal. 

 **Armie:** Really, just amazing. How do you _do_ that? 

 **Armie:** I get what you meant now, about the character, it was intense. I hope you’re feeling OK about it and have someone to talk to if you’re not.

 **Armie:** It’s my birthday. Well, my birthday party. The 28th is the actual day of my birth, but who wants to celebrate on a Tuesday? 

 **Armie:** I wish you were here. I miss you. I’m still so sorry for everything. 

 **Armie:** OK, I should probably stop now. 

He slides his phone back in his jeans pocket and takes another hit. 

* * * * 

Tim is at a club in Brooklyn with Matt and a few other friends from high school. He’s had a few drinks, the DJ is on point and he’s feeling good, except for the fact that a woman he’s just met is trying to inch her way into his lap. 

He manages to extricate himself and heads for the restroom. In the darkened hallway, he retrieves his phone and freezes. His heart thuds rapidly as he reads over Armie’s texts several times. Tim leans against the wall and draws a deep breath. 

 **Sweet T:** hey

He waits for a minute. 

 **Sweet T:** you really came to see my play? 

 **Sweet T:** why didn’t you stick around? 

Armie feels his phone vibrating. 

 **Armie:** Tim! Hi. Yes, I was there. I didn’t think you’d want to see me. 

Tim doesn’t respond immediately. He closes his eyes briefly and swallows his nerves. Armie waits, gripping his phone so hard his knuckles turn white.  

 **Sweet T:** i would. want to see you. 

He doesn’t wait for an answer. 

 **Sweet T:** i think i’ve watched all your tv interviews. no substitute for the real thing though. 

Armie nearly chokes on his drink. He inhales sharply. 

 **Armie:** Where are you right now? 

 **Sweet T:** a club in brooklyn.

 **Armie:** I can be there in 30 minutes.

Tim bites his bottom lip hard so he doesn't moan out loud. 

 **Sweet T:** come get me Armie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I couldn't keep them apart for long!


	14. Real Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie wants to talk and Tim foils his plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the wonderful comments on the last chapter! So, I changed the rating, but don't get too excited. I knew writing smut would be hard, but this was a real struggle. I already have so much respect for all the amazing writers in this fandom and this chapter made me appreciate them even more. All I can say is, I tried! :) 
> 
> This chapter is the longest I've written because there's a lot of dialogue.

Sitting in the backseat of an Uber, Armie glowers at the taillights that seem to stretch for miles in front of him. He’s not sure if there’s an accident somewhere up ahead or this is normal Saturday night traffic, but he doesn’t have time for this bullshit when Tim is waiting for him. 

If he were in a silly romcom, Armie imagines this would be the point in the movie where he would bolt from the car and run the rest of the way to the club — nimbly weaving between cars, leaping over small dogs and dodging pretzel vendors in his path— arriving just in time to sweep Tim up into his arms. Cue 80s pop song and roll credits. 

He smiles at the ridiculous image until he glances at his watch and realizes with dismay that at this pace, it will take much longer than half an hour to reach Brooklyn. Swearing under his breath, he taps his fingers restlessly on the armrest. 

By the time Armie reaches the club, he’s practically vibrating with excitement and so keyed up he pays the cover charge to get in, even though Tim told him to text when he got there so he could meet him out front.

The bass rumbles in his chest, thumping in time with the accelerated rhythm of his heartbeat. He stands near the bar so Tim knows where to look for him, but far enough away that he’s not swept up in the thirsty crush.

Armie is too self-conscious to dance in public, but he likes to watch, so he’s admiring how the mirrored disco ball throws shimmering pink and purple light across the sea of sweaty bodies on the dance floor when he spots Tim skirting around the edge of the throbbing crowd. 

Tim stops a few feet away and his eyes drink in Armie's black leather boots, tight grey jeans and sapphire shirt that he knows brings out the blue of his eyes, even though Tim can’t really see them in the dark.  

Arousal stirs low in Armie’s belly when Tim bites his full bottom lip. Smiling, Tim beckons for Armie to follow as he turns and moves toward the rear of the cavernous space. Like a sailor lured by the siren’s sweet song, Armie is powerless to do anything but pursue his green-eyed beauty.  

When Tim was in high school, he and his friends would sneak into this club with fake IDs almost every weekend. Although the ownership and music have changed since then, the building remains the same and Tim knows its secrets — like the stairs tucked in an alcove at the far end of the hallway, just past the storage room where the surplus paper products, alcohol and cocktail condiments are kept. People rarely venture back there. 

The light is too weak to illuminate the area beneath the stairs, where Tim guides Armie. Before he can get his bearings, Tim shoves him against the exposed brick wall and kisses him deeply, pushing his tongue into Armie’s mouth. There’s nothing tentative or cautious about it — the kiss is an intoxicating combination of pent-up desire and a promise of things to come. 

At first, Armie lets Tim have control, but his dominant side soon rebels and he flips their position. Tim let’s out a surprised yelp when his back hits the wall, moaning quietly when Armie pulls his T-shirt aside and sucks hard on the smooth skin at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. 

“Fuck, Tim,” Armie grunts, sliding his thigh between the younger man’s legs. 

Tim trails his hands down Armie’s back and roughly squeezes his ass. He knows this is reckless; an employee or a wandering club goer could discover them at any moment, but he simply can’t stop. He’s missed the solid weight of Armie’s body on his, the prickly scratch of stubble across his skin, the exhilarating feeling of being consumed. 

“Armie, kiss me … please,” he whines. 

With one hand wrapped loosely around Tim’s slender throat, Armie captures his lips again. He deepens the kiss, licking across the roof of Tim’s mouth and sucking on his tongue. Tim is panting when Armie pulls back and rests his forehead against his. 

“We should go before we get caught,” Armie sighs, brushing his thumb across the plump lip that has played a starring role in his recent fantasies.

Tim nods and presses a last lingering kiss to his mouth. 

While Armie orders another Uber, Tim quickly texts Matt. 

 **Timo:** leaving with Armie. grab my jacket when you leave.

 **Matt:** What’s Armie doing here? Where are you going? 

 **Timo:** home 

Waiting for their ride, Armie and Tim stand as close as they possibly can without drawing attention, the backs of their hands brushing lightly. Armie looks around, and when he’s reasonably certain no one is paying them any mind, he loops his pinky around Tim’s.

During the drive, Armie discovers his boy doesn’t play fair. Tim’s hand, which starts out resting on his knee, steadily creeps higher, his long fingers firmly running along the inseam of Armie’s jeans. 

“Tim,” he hisses. 

Smiling sweetly, Tim presses the heel of his hand against Armie’s crotch. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut. 

When he opens them again, the driver, a middle-aged Asian man, is watching him quizzically in the rearview mirror. Armie holds his gaze and flashes a disarming grin. Out of the guy’s line of sight, he pries Tim’s hand loose and traps it under his own on his thigh. 

At the apartment building, they manage to maintain decorum in the lobby and elevator, but the moment Tim opens his front door they’re all over each other. 

Stumbling blindly through the living room, Armie lands in the armchair and Tim scrambles onto his lap, wedging his knees on either side of Armie’s hips. 

“Don’t you think we should talk first?” Armie asks breathlessly.

“Noooo…less talking, more kissing.” He fumbles frantically with the buttons on Armie’s shirt. 

“Tim, wait!” Armie takes hold of his shoulders and gently pushes him away until he can see his face.

“Oh, God! Please don’t do this to me again Armie,” Tim wails, eyes wide with distress. 

Seeing Tim’s stricken expression, Armie almost says, ‘Fuck it, let’s do this and deal with the consequences tomorrow.’ But he knows that would be a mistake that could ruin everything and he’s not willing to throw away the second chance he never believed he would get. He won’t fuck this up again. 

“Listen to me OK, Tim. Timmy! I’m not saying no, I’m not rejecting you, so if that’s what you think is happening here, I want you to put that out of your mind right now. I want this, I want _you_. Probably more than I should. I’ve been miserable for the past month and I’m so happy and thankful you’re willing to give me a second chance, especially since I don’t really deserve it.” 

Tim starts to protest but Armie silences him with a finger to his lips. He cups Tim’s face with both hands, smoothing across his cheeks with his thumbs. “But we’ve both been drinking—”

“I’m not drunk!” 

“I know. I still think we need to talk about what I did so we can clear the air between us before anything else happens. And I’d rather not have such a serious conversation at,” Armie checks his watch, “two in the morning.”

Tim sighs and wraps his arms around Armie’s neck. “Why do you have to be so honorable all of a sudden?” 

“Not honorable, selfish actually,” he shrugs, settling his hands on Tim’s hips. “Tim, you’re offering me the gift of forgiveness, and an opportunity to earn your trust again and I don’t take that lightly. I don’t want to fuck this up.

“I haven’t misread the situation, have I?” Armie asks, suddenly unsure. “You do want us to try again?” 

“Yes,” Tim beams and kisses him softly. “I’ve missed you, too.” 

Tim strokes the short hair at Armie’s nape and traces the embroidered design on his shirt collar. Now that he’s cooled down and he isn’t thinking with his dick, he realizes that Armie is right. They have a lot to talk about and work through before they can get back to where they were. Tim is no longer angry and he’s willing to wipe the slate clean so they can start over, but he also knows they’ll have to rebuild trust. The fact that he agrees with Armie doesn’t stop him from needling him, though. 

“You know, I’m starting to think you’re a fucking cocktease, Armand Hammer,” he pouts. 

“Sweetheart, the only kind of teasing I indulge in will make you feel so good and keep you right on the edge until you’re begging me to let you come.” 

  _Oh, fuck._

The intensity in his blue eyes makes Tim shudder. This is a side of Armie he hasn’t seen. When they fooled around before, Tim sometimes felt he was holding back, keeping his urges in check. Based on the way Armie took control at the club, Tim suspects he likes to dominate in the bedroom.  

Tim clears his throat. “Will you stay tonight?” 

Armie raises an eyebrow. 

“Just to sleep! Then we can talk in the morning when we’re both totally sober,” he rolls his eyes, “and you can take me out to brunch.” 

“OK,” Armie chuckles. “But I’m warning you, I get kind of overheated when I sleep.” 

Tim finds a pair of gym shorts that belonged to a former roommate for Armie to sleep in and an unopened travel toothbrush from one of the dozens of luxury hotels he’s stayed in over the past year. 

“You called me Timmy,” he whispers, nuzzling against Armie’s bare chest once they’re settled in bed. 

“I did. Do you mind?” 

“No. I mean, you don’t have to call me that if you’re more comfortable with Tim or whatever. But,” he lifts his head and looks so vulnerable and beautiful that Armie’s heart aches, “I liked it.” 

Armie kisses his temple and tightens his hold. “Timmy it is, then.” 

* * * *

The morning gets off to an awkward start. 

In the moments just before Tim wakes up, his ass brushes against Armie’s groin every time he changes position. Armie tries to angle his hips away, but Tim seeks out his warmth and scoots back until their bodies are flush again. 

Armie is trying to be good, but he’s in agony. He clears his mind and tries to think of innocent things like kittens and rainbows. It doesn’t help. His libido shifts into overdrive. 

Tim is awake.

He actually had been squirming in his sleep, but his eyes snap open as soon as he feels Armie’s thick erection pressed against him. Although he agrees, in principle, that they shouldn’t fuck before they talk, Tim needs _something_ before he crawls out of his fucking skin. Still, he won’t risk being denied again. If anything happens now, Armie will have to initiate it, he decides. Tim remains still and prays he will. 

Armie notices the change in Tim’s breathing. 

“Timmy,” he murmurs in his ear. “Are you awake?” 

Armie’s voice, deep and raspy with sleep, travels straight to Tim’s cock.

“Yeah…” 

Armie brushes his lips lightly over the back of his neck, breathing in his scent. “Is this OK?” 

Unable to speak, Tim nods. 

Encouraged, Armie props himself up on his elbow so he can kiss along his jaw. He turns Tim’s head toward him and slowly kisses his luscious mouth.

Smiling he asks, “Still OK?”  

“Need more …” 

That’s all it takes for Armie’s restraint to snap. He crushes his mouth against Tim’s and rolls on top of him, settling between his legs. Tim moans into his mouth when Armie grinds down. Shoving his hands under Tim’s shirt, Armie runs his fingers over the thin skin stretched across his ribs. When Armie flicks his tongue over one stiff nipple and closes his hot mouth around it, Tim bucks his hips up, seeking more friction against his aching dick.

The next moments are a feverish blur of lips, tongues and hands. Armie grinds his cock hard against Tim’s until his boy is moaning loudly and clawing at his sweat-slicked back. When Armie kisses the moles on his neck and licks a path from his Adam’s apple up to his ear, Tim is trembling with need. 

“Tell me what you want, Timmy,” Armie whispers, biting his earlobe.

“Touch me,” Tim gasps. 

Armie quickly strips Tim and removes his own shorts and boxers. He sits with his back against the headboard and positions Tim so he’s straddling his hips. Armie licks his palm and wraps his hand around their cocks, stroking slowly. He swipes his thumb through the precum and spreads it around the sensitive heads.  

Tim groans and thrusts into Armie’s grip. Armie increases his speed, his eyes darting between Tim’s blissed out face — eyes half-closed and openmouthed — and his hand jerking them off. 

Tim doesn’t want this to end, he’s waited so long and it feels so good, but he’s already too far gone. 

“Oh god, Armie…fuck!” Tim cries out as his orgasm rushes over him. 

When he sees Tim’s cum splashed across his stomach and chest Armie comes too, cursing and moaning Tim’s name. 

“Fuck. That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Armie pants, his head resting on Tim’s shoulder. 

“So much for waiting until we talked,” Tim smirks, carding his fingers through Armie’s damp hair. 

“Yeah, thanks to your wandering ass,” he laughs and kisses his neck. 

* * * *

They drag themselves out of bed and clean up, knowing that if they stay wrapped up in each other they’ll never have the discussion. To avoid further temptation, Tim sits on the love seat and Armie takes the arm chair. 

“I’m not sure how to start,” Armie admits, licking his lips. “There’s no excuse for what I did, so I’m not trying to justify it. But I want you to know, I regretted lying to you from the very beginning. I just couldn’t see any way around it.”

“OK. I mean, was lying your idea?” 

“No, my editor came up with that dodgy strategy,” he grimaces. “She thought you might reveal the truth about your relationship with Lily if I befriended you. She was convinced you guys were faking it.” 

Tim is avoiding his eyes and Armie senses that he’s withdrawing, which makes him nervous. 

“Hey, Timmy. Do you want to talk about how you felt when you found out the truth?”

Tim draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. “I was so angry at you,” he begins quietly. “But more than anger, I was really hurt and sad because I liked you so much Armie, and I believed you actually liked me.”

He takes a deep breath. “You probably won’t understand this, because you’re so gorgeous and I’m sure guys and girls have been throwing themselves at you since you were in high school. But that’s not what my life has been like. And guys like you, who can have anyone they want, never wanted me.” 

“But you’re so beautiful, Timmy. I don’t get—”

“Armie, I was scrawny in high school. Fuck, let’s be honest, I’m still scrawny! And this look doesn’t appeal to everyone, OK? So yeah, now people say they think I’m good looking or whatever, but that doesn’t erase years of being told the opposite,” he says, voice rising. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to … look, when I first saw you at Mud, I couldn’t believe you were even looking at me, that you could possibly be attracted to _me_. When I found out you lied about your job I assumed you were lying about being interested in me too, because that actually made more sense.”  

Armie feels like the world's biggest asshole. He moves next to Tim and pulls him into his arms.  

“Timmy, I’m so sorry I hurt you and made you feel that way. I do think you’re beautiful, but that’s not the only, or even the most important, thing I like about you. You’re kind, sweet, generous, adorable, dorky —”

“Hey!” Tim elbows him in the side and tries to wriggle away, but Armie won’t let him go. 

“Let me finish! Now, where was I? Oh right, smart, funny, honest, super talented and good. You are a genuinely good person Timothée Chalamet and I’m honored that you want to spend any time with me.” 

Tim tilts his head back and gently tugs a handful of Armie’s hair to bring their lips together. 

“I still say I’m the lucky one, Armie. Every word you just used to describe me, I could say about you, too. Well maybe not dorky, which I take exception to by the way! Just promise me, no more lies, OK?” Tim says, snuggling up close to him.

“Only the truth from now on.”  

After a few minutes of silence Armie says, “We’re not so different you know.”

“How so?” 

“Well, I guess some people might find me attractive, but I have a shitty romantic track record. My one serious boyfriend in college dumped me for his lab partner. It was fine though, because I was moving here after graduation and he wanted to go to Seattle, so the relationship was destined to end anyway.

“I thought Simon and I were perfect together, but I guess I wasn’t enough. Anyway, he cheated on me more than once and I stupidly took him back because I loved him. When I finally broke it off, I felt hollow, you know? I started believing I was unworthy of anything more.” 

“Fuck that guy,” Tim says emphatically. “You deserve to be happy.” 

“I’m happy right now.” 

Tim worries his bottom lip with his teeth. There’s still one nagging question he needs answered.

“Were you ever going to tell me the truth?” 

“Yeah, I was working up to it. I was so upset about the Lily thing that I planned to confront you about it. Then I was going to confess.” 

“What Lily thing? The dinner? Are you _serious_?” 

“You lied to me!”

“Says the guy who was lying to me!” 

“I had no right to be angry, but I thought that if you were lying about the date, maybe you were lying about everything; that this thing between us didn’t mean anything to you.” 

“You realize that makes no fucking sense, right?” 

“I know that now,” Armie sighs. “How did you find out anyway?” 

“The woman who owns the French restaurant is close friends with my agent. She told him you called asking a bunch of questions.” 

“Christ, I knew that was a bad idea. Does he know about us?” 

He shakes his head. “Only Matt.”

Armie has never dated anyone who was in the closet before. Although, Tim isn’t technically in the closet since his family and friends know he’s bisexual. Still, Armie wonders what it will feel like to be a secret, to police his behavior in public so he doesn’t reach for Tim’s hand or slip his arm around his waist or kiss him. He already suspects that even though he knows Lily is only a friend and any future ‘dates’ will be for the cameras, photos of them will feel like a punch in the gut. Tim doesn’t know it yet, but Armie is possessive, even more so after what he went through with Simon. 

“Armie?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Since we’ve talked, does that mean we can finally fuck now?” 

“Jesus, Timmy! Go make yourself pretty so I can take you to breakfast!” Armie says, slapping him on the ass when he stands.  

Tim squeals and giggles all the way to the bathroom. 


	15. Happy Birthday, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie has a birthday and Tim has a surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments and kudos on the last chapter! I'm sorry this one took me so long. I've enrolled in a few classes, so I may be slower to update. Also, this chapter was another difficult one for some reason. There were a couple of things that had to happen to set up future developments, but it's mostly fluff. 
> 
> A special shout out and thanks to cumpeachx and lookingforatardis (two of my faves) for recommending this story on tumblr!

Leaning in the doorway of their bathroom, Maya watches Armie swipe a razor down his cheek.

“So, where is he taking you?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.” He rinses the stubble and foam from the blade under the running hot water. “All he said was I should wear a suit.” 

She nods appreciatively. “Fancy.”

“Hey, I’m sorry about tonight, by the way,” he says, his eyes focused on his reflection in the mirror as he makes several more passes over his neck with the razor. It’s been their tradition to treat each other to dinner when their birthdays fall on a weekday. 

“Don’t be. We can do our thing any time. You should spend your birthday with your hot boyfriend.” 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Armie scoffs, wiping the remnants of shaving cream from his face with a damp washcloth. 

“You guys may not have made it Instagram official yet, but for all intents and purposes, he’s your boyfriend. Wait, can you guys even do that? Our friends will notice if Timothée Chalamet suddenly starts following your private IG and then you’ll have some splainin’ to do,” she says in a singsong voice. 

Armie rolls his eyes as he passes her on his way to finish dressing in his room. Maya follows, sitting on the bed watching him rummage through the closet for something to wear. 

“He’s really picking you up?” 

“Yep, he said he wants this to be a ‘formal date.’ I think it’s cute,” he shrugs, pulling a charcoal gray suit out and holding it up to his chest. “How about this one?”

“I love that he’s coming here instead of meeting you at the restaurant, like some cheap hook-up. It’s delightfully old-fashioned and romantic. I’m just surprised a 22-year-old kid has game like that. Yeah, that suit is perfect. Wear the blue shirt I gave you last Christmas. 

“Plus, this way I finally get to meet him,” she adds, smiling slyly.  

“May, don’t embarrass me,” he warns. 

She gasps and presses a hand to her chest in mock offense, “When have I ever embarrassed you with a date, Armie?” 

“Do you really want to go there?” 

“OK, I may have given you shit a few times in the past, but I promise to be good tonight. Now, hurry up and get dressed before he gets here,” she tosses over her shoulder on her way out of his room. 

Twenty minutes later, Armie answers the door to a beaming Tim who’s wearing a forest green suit, white button-down and polished black boots. 

“Happy birthday, Armie,” he says, stepping into his arms for a hug and soft kiss. 

“Thank you. You look amazing, Timmy.”

“So do you.” Tim smooths his hands over Armie’s lapels and leans in for another kiss. 

Maya observes them for a moment before clearing her throat. 

Reluctantly, they pull apart. “Timmy this is my best friend Maya. Maya, this is Tim.” 

Tim ignores her extended hand and pulls Maya into a warm embrace, briefly resting his head on her shoulder.

“Maya, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you! Armie has told me so much about you.” 

“Hi, Tim. Um, I’m so happy to meet you, too! Armie, uh, he, talks about you all the time.” Uncharacteristically flustered, she trips over her words, trying to recover from the hug, his exquisite face and stunning eyes. _Are they green or hazel or gold?_

“He does?” Tim looks pleasantly surprised. 

“Yes.” Maya quickly moves on when she catches Armie scowling at her. “Armie told me about your play. I’m really looking forward to seeing it.” 

“Oh, you should come with Armie on opening night. I’ll get you both tickets. I was going to invite you over dinner,” he says, turning to Armie.

“Are you sure, Tim? I don’t want to impose —”

“It’s no problem, Maya. You’d actually be doing me a favor since you can keep Armie company at the after party so he’s not bored to tears while I'm schmoozing with the producers and the press.” 

“The after party?” Armie asks.

“Open bar, hors d’oeuvres, glamorous theatre people,” he grins. “It will be fun.”  

Armie is not so sure about that. He wonders how they will navigate the party since they can’t be out. _Will Lily be there, too?_ The thought makes his stomach twist. He’ll definitely need Maya and free booze to get through it. 

After a few more minutes of genial conversation, during which Maya answers Tim’s questions about her job and family, their Uber arrives. 

* * * *

When their ride pulls up in front of one of the oldest and finest steakhouses in New York City, Armie is flabbergasted. The only way he thought he’d ever dine here was if his parents visited, because the restaurant — which caters to the Wall Street wizards and corporate titans who make up the city’s financial elite — represents the uniquely American wealth and opulence the elder Hammers revere. If he’s honest with himself, though, Armie knows the odds of his parents coming to New York and taking him out to dinner, even for his birthday, are lower than winning the lottery. So yeah, he never believed he’d be here. 

With its dark wood paneling, oxblood leather chairs and white table cloths the place positively reeks of testosterone and old money. On the way to their table, Tim notices that he and Armie appear to be the youngest patrons. With his strapping physique and golden-boy good looks, Armie fits in despite his youth, while Tim’s slight frame and delicate features mark him as decidedly ‘other’ among the portly middle-aged men with silver hair, bald pates and conservative clothes _._  

Tim swallows his anxiety when they arrive at a relatively secluded table near the rear of the smaller dining room, as he had requested. Here they’re unlikely to attract attention and he might even be able to get away with holding Armie’s hand. 

When the waiter leaves to get their drinks, Armie gawks at the menu. 

“Tim,” he hisses. “Are you sure about this? Have you seen how much these entrees cost?” 

Tim widens his eyes comically. “Oh shit, I had no idea! I hope you’re prepared to wash dishes, Armie.” 

He’s met with stony silence. 

Tim sighs. “Look, it’s your birthday. You love steak and we’re at one of the best steakhouses in the city.” He cocks his head to the side, his lips quirked up into a playful smile.“Can you just enjoy it? Will you let me do this for you, baby?” 

He reaches across the table to cover Armie’s hand with his own. 

It’s the ‘baby’ that does it; hits him square in the chest and he absolutely melts. Although he’s uncomfortable with Tim spending so much money, especially since he knows his artistic success has not translated into riches, Armie is flattered by the gesture.

“I’m sorry for sounding like an ingrate. Thank you, Timmy.” He entwines their fingers and gives Tim’s hand a gentle squeeze. Smirking he adds, “To show you how much I appreciate you bringing me here, I’m going to order the most expensive thing on the menu.”

“No need to be _that_ grateful,” he laughs. 

* * * *

The dinner dishes have been cleared and they are enjoying another round of drinks — red wine for Tim, whiskey for Armie— when Tim slides a flat, rectangular box wrapped in glossy blue and silver paper toward the birthday boy. Smiling, Armie looks up at him and slowly turns the gift over in his hands, runs his fingers across the shiny crimson ribbon.

Beneath the table, Tim’s leg bounces and he exhales in rapid little puffs. His heart is slamming against his ribs. He hopes he hasn’t overstepped; prays Armie doesn’t think this is too much, too soon. Tim doesn’t want to scare him off when he just got him back. 

“Did you get me a tie, Timmy?” he teases. “I know I’m not the fashion diva you are, but you really think I need help?” He’s grinning and there’s a mischievous glint in those ocean-blue eyes Tim could drown in.

He tries to return the smile, instead his mouth twists into a grimace. Tim licks his lips and drains his wine glass. He wishes Armie would just open the box and put him out of his misery already. If he had qualms about dinner, Tim’s not sure how he’ll react to his gift. 

Armie carefully unfolds layers of delicate tissue paper to reveal a thin ivory envelope with his name scrawled across the front in Tim’s messy script. Tim’s pained expression sets off alarm bells and Armie immediately imagines the worst possible scenarios. 

_It’s a copy of Tim’s and Lily’s marriage license. A restraining order. Test results showing Tim only has six months left to live._

Armie wipes his clammy palms on his thighs. He tries vainly to control the tremor running through his hands as he slides his index finger along the edge of the flap. He pulls out a few sheets of plain white paper, the kind found in any printer or copier in any office across the globe. 

Gripping the papers in both hands, Armie scans them quickly — an American Airlines logo, a confirmation number, October dates, Heathrow arrival. Relieved, but puzzled, he wonders why Tim has given him a gift-wrapped copy of his itinerary.

“Um, I don’t understand. Do you want me to take you to the airport when you fly to London?” 

Tim groans in exasperation. “Look at the name, Armie.” 

 _Armand Hammer. Business class._  

“What the …” 

Tim has been biting his tongue for what feels like forever, so when he opens his mouth the words tumble out in a rush. 

“A documentary about the 80s British ska movement premieres at the London Film Festival the day before _Beautiful Boy_ and I got us tickets. The bands featured in the film —Madness, English Beat, some others I can’t remember — are playing at the after party. They’re some of your favorites, right? So, I thought you could fly to London with me and we’d see the film and hang out at the party. Then maybe I’ll understand, you know, why this music means so much to you.” 

Armie looks down at the papers in his hands and back up at Tim, who is watching him expectantly.

“Dinner was one thing, but I can’t let you buy me a plane ticket to London, Tim! That’s way too expensive,” he protests. 

“I have about a million frequent flier miles saved up, so it cost me practically nothing,” he  waves his hand dismissively. That’s mostly true. 

“You can stay in my hotel room and we can order room service every night on the studio’s tab or we can go out, whatever you want to do.” 

When Armie doesn’t respond, Tim squirms awkwardly in his chair. The longer the silence drags on, the warmer he becomes, until he feels an uncomfortable prickling in his armpits.

“I’m sorry, is it too much?” he asks. “It’s just, when I saw the festival schedule it seemed like a good idea? This will probably sound cheesy, but it felt like the universe was telling me something. Like it was fate. I don’t know. You don’t have to go. Maybe you can’t even take the time off from work. Fuck. This was presumptuous of me, I should have checked with you first —” 

“Let me get this straight,” Armie begins, cutting off his rambling. “You want to fly me to London to see a documentary about a musical genre you know nothing about? Why?” 

“For a smart guy, you can be pretty fucking dense some times, Armie” Tim huffs. “Isn’t it obvious? Because it’s your birthday and this music is special to you — it’s like the soundtrack to your youth, right? — and I just want to make you happy. I also want to know more about everything that’s important to you.” 

Armie reads the itinerary again. He refolds the papers, stuffs them back inside the envelope and returns it to the box. He slips the box into his suit jacket’s inner pocket. 

“I think we should get the check,” he says finally. 

“Oh. Sure, yeah we can leave,” Tim mumbles. The sting of rejection colors his cheeks a deep pink. He signals the waiter and pulls his wallet from his pocket. “So, you’re saying no? You won’t come with me?” 

Armie stares at him intently, shaking his head.

“I’m saying yes, Timmy. I’m saying this may be the sweetest, kindest thing anyone has ever done for me,” he says in a hushed voice. “I’m saying I want you to take me home so I can thank you properly.” 

* * * *

In the bedroom, Armie starts to remove his jacket when Tim stops him. 

“Can I undress you?” he whispers. 

Armie nods and drops his hands to his sides. 

Tim slides the jacket over Armie’s shoulders and down off his arms. He neatly folds it over the back of the chair in the corner. They kiss deeply as Tim’s slim fingers unbutton Armie’s shirt, which joins his jacket. 

Tim guides Armie backwards until his legs hit the edge of the mattress and he sits. Crouching, Tim removes Armie’s shoes and reaches up to unbutton and unzip his pants. He pulls his boxers and pants off together, adds them to the pile on the chair and returns to kneel between Armie’s legs. 

“Can I suck your cock, baby?” he asks, looking up at Armie from beneath his long lashes and caressing his thighs. Although Armie is nude and Tim is fully dressed except for his suit jacket, he’s in the submissive position. Tim notes with satisfaction the effect this has on Armie, who is already breathing heavily through parted lips. 

“Oh God. Yes, please.” 

Timmy leans forward and closes his lips around the bulbous head, sucking lightly. The wet heat of his mouth and his swirling tongue draw a loud groan from Armie. Bobbing his head, Tim relaxes his throat and takes Armie’s cock as deep as he can, swallowing around it. 

“Fuck!” Armie grips the comforter and concentrates on keeping his hips from bucking. 

Moaning, Tim pulls back, dragging his tongue along the underside from the base to the head. He wraps his hand around his length and strokes slowly while he teases the slit with the tip of his tongue. 

Armie pushes Tim’s curls back so he can see his eyes, which are brimming with affection and desire. Tim maintains eye contact and slides his mouth back down over his dick, hollowing his cheeks.  

“Oh fuck, Timmy, I’m gonna come—” His head drops back and with a strangled cry, his cum floods Tim’s mouth. He swallows greedily.

Panting and shaking, Armie collapses on the bed. Tim quickly removes his clothes and crawls on top of him. He’s so turned on, so beside himself with the need for release that he desperately grinds his erection against Armie’s hip.  

“No, no, baby. Want you to come in my mouth.” 

He flips them over and kisses his way down Tim’s writhing body, pausing briefly to lick over his nipples. 

“You’re so wet for me, Timmy,” he sighs, teasingly running his middle finger around the slippery head of his dick.

“Armie, please! I can’t,” he whines. Tim feels like he’s going to explode or cry from frustration if Armie doesn’t give him some friction soon.  

“It’s OK, I got you, T.” Armie sucks his cock down to the root, working his tongue over the sensitive tip. Soon, Tim is coming and moaning, his eyes screwed shut. 

* * * *

“Mmm, where are you going?” 

Timmy drops a kiss on Armie’s shoulder before scooting off the bed. “Be right back.” 

Armie watches him walk away, admiring his long limbs and the way the muscles flex in his pert, bite-size ass. He wonders, not for the first time, how he got so lucky. He’s sure he doesn’t deserve this beautiful, amazing man, but he silently vows to do everything in his power to keep him. 

Through the half-open bedroom door, Armie sees a soft, orange glow advancing down the dark hall. When Tim comes in bearing a small cake with five lit candles and singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ Armie groans.  

“Oh my god, you didn’t!” he chuckles, sitting up against the headboard and letting the sheet pool around his waist. 

“I did,” Tim smiles, clambering up onto the bed to straddle Armie’s lap. In addition to a cluster of lavender and pink buttercream flowers, ‘Happy 27th Birthday Armie’ is written across the top of the cake in yellow icing.

“It’s German chocolate, I hope you like it.” 

“I love German chocolate,” Armie says, staring dreamily into his eyes. 

“Blow out the candles, baby, before we burn down the building!” Tim giggles. 

Tim only brought one fork into the bedroom, so he alternates feeding himself and Armie bites of the rich, moist cake. 

“Maya called you my boyfriend tonight and I said you weren’t,” he says, rubbing his hands up and down Tim’s back.

Tim frowns as he chews.

“Well, only because we haven’t talked about it,” Armie hastens to explain. 

“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?” 

“Yes,” he blushes. 

“Then ask me,” Tim says, shrugging one smooth shoulder.

“What?” 

“Ask _(kiss on his neck)_ me _(kiss on the corner of his mouth)_.”

“Jesus, you’re really going all in on being formal tonight aren’t you?” Armie grins. “Alright, Timothée Hal Chalamet will you do me the great honor of going steady with me?” 

“And you called me a dork!” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “Yes, Armand Douglas Hammer, I will go steady with you. Does this mean I get to wear your letterman jacket to the sock hop on Saturday?” 

“This is how you treat your boyfriend, Timmy? With sass?”

Tim sets the half-eaten cake down on the nightstand and lifts up enough to pull the sheet from beneath him so they are skin to skin. He rocks his hips and kisses Armie hard, pushing his tongue into his mouth. He smirks when he feels Armie’s cock stiffen against his ass. 

“This is how I treat my boyfriend,” Tim whispers hotly in his ear. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How will Tim juggle a real boyfriend and a fake girlfriend?


	16. Reality Check

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim clashes with Brian, who lays down the law.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me a month to update! I had the bulk of the chapter written within a week, but I really struggled with two parts of it. I also apologize if the action seems a little disjointed because I allude to events that take place off stage, so to speak. On the bright side, this chapter is really long. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me and I promise I won't let another month elapse before I update!
> 
> The action picks up where we left off in the last chapter -- in Tim's bedroom.

It’s different this time. 

The feverish urgency of their early morning coupling a few days ago has been replaced with the calming reassurance that comes from having made a commitment.

If their first encounter was a frenzied race to the finish, tonight promises to be a slow-burn. Despite getting off once already this evening, they haven’t slaked their thirst for each other. Not even close. 

Armie turns them over and settles between Tim’s spread thighs. Trailing wet kisses across his pale neck, Armie resists the almost feral urge to bite down hard and suck; to leave behind garish purplish-red bruises marking Tim as taken, as his.

Instead, he closes his mouth over Tim’s sharp collar bone and sinks his teeth in just long enough to leave an impression in the smooth skin, to draw a gasp from the ruby lips. 

“Fuck,” Armie groans, slowly rolling his hips.

The smell and feel of Armie all around him overwhelms Tim’s senses. He moans softly, but the words to tell Armie that he needs him, that he can’t wait any longer, stick in his throat. Tim flings his left arm out toward the nightstand, blindly feeling around for the handle to the drawer that holds a half bottle of lube and an unopened box of condoms. For some reason, he wants Armie to know he’s only used the lube to ease the way for hand-jobs (sometimes with company, more frequently alone), tries to remember to tell him later. 

Chuckling, Armie sits up on his knees and retrieves the items. The laughter dies in his chest when he looks down at Tim’s leaking cock. 

Armie hasn’t slept with anyone since he broke up with Simon, more than six months ago. Tim has been getting by and getting off on half-hearted hook-ups for far longer.

With shaking hands, he struggles to remove the cap, almost drops the cool bottle on Tim’s stomach.  

Armie presses a fingertip inside where it’s hot and tight. Tim gasps, breathes deeply through the burning stretch. Armie watches his face carefully as he works his digit farther in, loosening the muscles. More lube and a second finger, slowly working them in and out. When Armie is three fingers deep, he grazes Tim’s prostate, causing him to cry out and tremble.

He continues twisting and stroking until Tim is panting and on edge. 

“Armie, please…” he whines, grinding his hips down onto Armie’s probing fingers. “I need you to fuck me, baby.” 

Wearing a condom and slicked with lube, Armie wraps Tim’s legs around his waist and presses forward slowly until his cock is seated fully inside his boyfriend. Rocking his hips, Armie kisses Tim fiercely, sucking on his lips and tongue. 

“You feel so good, Timmy,” he moans. 

When he fantasized about their first time —which he was as likely to do during boring work meetings or while riding the subway as he was when he was jerking off — Armie never imagined it would be like this. Unhurried, yet passionate. More making love, than frenzied fucking. 

Propped up on his elbow, Armie brushes the curls back off Tim’s forehead, marveling at his delicate beauty. He tenderly kisses his eyelids, brushes his lips across his cheeks, nibbles on his chin. He rests his head on Tim’s shoulder and gives in to the pleasure coursing through his body. 

Smiling, Tim slides his hands up Armie’s back and buries his fingers in his silky hair. Even with Armie cradled between his thighs, part of Tim can’t believe this is really happening. 

“I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you,” he sighs, turning his head to kiss Armie’s temple. “You’re so fucking hot.” 

Something shifts in Armie. He reaches down and tucks Tim’s knee into the crook of his elbow, pulling his bent leg up toward his head. He slides the other hand beneath Tim, gripping his ass and lifting, changing the angle of his deep thrusts.

Tim’s eyes snap open. “Oh, God! Yes! Armie!” 

He speeds up, snapping his hips forward, his balls slapping against Tim’s ass. Armie feels the pressure building, knows he won’t last much longer. “Touch yourself, baby,” he grunts.

Tim snakes a hand between their bellies and swipes his thumb repeatedly over the slick head of his cock. 

In no time, he’s coming in hot spurts over his hand and biting down hard on Armie’s shoulder to muffle his cries. Tim’s clenching muscles draw out Armie’s orgasm, while his hips stutter through a few last erratic thrusts. 

Ignoring their sweaty stickiness, Armie settles on top of Tim, kisses his neck and runs a hand through his damp hair. 

“You OK?” 

“Uh-uh,” Tim smiles dreamily. “Better than OK. Perfect. Just like you.”

* * * *

“Tim, come in. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, that conference call dragged on longer than I anticipated.” 

Holding the door open, Brian waves him into his office, indicating that Tim should take his usual chair. He slips behind his cluttered desk and pulls up the itinerary for their upcoming weekend in Toronto. 

“So, you’re all ready for the festival, right? Haider’s people delivered your suit?” 

“Yep. It’s incredible, Brian. He really outdid himself this time and I think people are going to like it. What’s that stuff?” he gestures to two thick, black garment bags laid out on the small sofa in the corner. 

“Ah, Virgil sent some things over for you. A few jackets, pants and jewelry, I believe. Your final fitting for your suit for the LA premiere is next Wednesday. I’ll send you a calendar reminder.” 

Tim’s eyes light up at the mention of more Luis Vuitton to add to his growing collection of designer gear. His closet is stuffed with buttery leather jackets, whimsically patterned sweaters and tailored trousers. For Tim, fashion is another mode of artistic expression and he loves playing with color and texture. 

Back when Tim was struggling to land larger roles and wearing ill-fitting suits to industry events, he was aware that the top fashion houses shower successful actors with free clothes, but he’s still surprised by the sheer volume of luxury pieces he’s acquired since _Call Me By Your Name_ and _Lady Bird_ catapulted him to stardom. 

Brian chuckles at the way Tim is practically salivating. “You can check out what he sent once we’ve gone over everything.”

Sitting back, he nods sheepishly.

“I have the final press schedule for Friday. You have group interviews and photoshoots with IMDb, the Hollywood Reporter and Variety; then a solo chat with Vanity Fair. Your MTV pal, Josh, is on Saturday morning and we fly back in the early afternoon.” 

“What about Lily?” 

“Lily? Sorry, I don’t follow.” 

“She’s going to TIFF, too. I know we’re not doing the red carpet thing, but are we supposed to be seen together?” 

“Oh, no. She will be at opening night on Tuesday, though. We’re not going to allow any official photos of the two of you at the after party, but Nicole will let the tabloids know she was there to support you and celebrate your triumphant return to the stage,” Brian smiles.

Tim suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, knowing he can’t afford to annoy Brian given what he’s about to reveal. He’s been dreading this conversation for the past week, but there’s no avoiding it now.

He clears his throat. “So about opening night, there’s something I need to tell you,” he begins, tucking a wayward curl behind his ear. “I, uh, invited a friend.” 

“Matt? I figured he would be there. Make sure you tell your parents not to let anyone take a photo of them with Lily. We don’t want to give up the parental endorsement shot this early in the game,” Brian insists. “On second thought, they shouldn’t interact with her at all, that way we’ll ensure that none of the guests sneak a picture to post online.” 

“I’ll let them know. And Matt is coming, but he’s not the person I meant.” Tim steels himself for the impending shitstorm and blurts, “My boyfriend will be there.” 

Brian’s eyes widen. “Your … boyfriend…”

Brian has represented Tim since he was a teen, diligently building his resume with parts in mediocre films. Although some of those early projects were forgettable and regrettable, Tim always turned in solid performances, elevating the material and his co-stars. In addition to being incredibly talented, Tim has always been mature, ambitious and willing to listen to his elders’ counsel.

And Brian has been crystal clear on this subject. So he’s shocked to learn that his client apparently has gone rogue with a relationship that could torpedo his career just when all of Hollywood is spread out at his feet. 

“Yes, we’ve been together for a few weeks now and it’s good Brian. Really good,” Tim gushes, smiling widely. 

“A few weeks …” Brian realizes he’s parroting Tim, but his brain is still struggling to comprehend what the younger man is telling him.

He’s always tried to be a trusted, avuncular figure in Tim’s life; as such, even when they disagree, Brian never raises his voice, curses or berates. But the kid is testing his patience today.

“What are you doing Tim? A boyfriend? I’m sorry, you must think you’re a regular guy with a normal job. You’re not. Let me remind you, as I have many times before, you are in no position right now to be open about your sexuality.”

He holds up a hand, cutting off Tim’s response. 

“I know it’s not fair, and I know you resent it. Hell, you know I don’t like it either! Still, this is your reality. This is the life you chose,” he points an accusatory finger at Tim. “Grow up and deal with it.” 

Brian crosses his arms over his chest with an air of finality.

Tim flinches like he’s been slapped. Brian has never spoken to him this way. But fuck it, this is his _life_ and he refuses to go through it cowering in the shadows and sacrificing his happiness. Up to this point, he’s gone along with everything his team has asked of him, but this is non-negotiable. Armie is too important. 

“Listen Brian, I’m not talking about coming out and we’re not going to walk the red carpet. But he will be at the play and the after party because I want him there. I need him there. We won’t kiss or hold hands or do anything else that might suggest we’re more than platonic friends,” he promises. 

His tone shifts from earnest to resolute. “Let me be clear, though. I’m not asking for your permission. I’m giving you a heads up, so you and Nicole can make any arrangements or contingency plans you believe are necessary.” 

Brian takes note of Tim’s ramrod posture, the defiant jut of his chin, the flint in his cool, green eyes.  Despite his anger, he’s impressed with Tim’s moxie. This is not the eager to please little Timmy he’s used to. 

“There’s one more thing you’re not going to like,” Tim adds. “My boyfriend is Armie Hammer, the Buzzbeat reporter who wrote the story about fake celebrity romances.” 

_This is too goddamn much._

“Are you fucking kidding me?! A reporter, Tim? _That_ reporter?” Brian explodes, slamming his palms on the desk. Tim has never seen him this angry, not even the time he caught a “fan” trying to snip a lock of Tim’s hair.

“Wait a minute,” he narrows his eyes, leaning forward. “When and how did you two meet? Were you seeing each other when he gave Adeline the third degree about your dinner date with Lily?” 

Tim knew this would come up and decided in advance that, while he wouldn’t lie, he would not be entirely forthcoming either. As far as he’s concerned, Brian doesn’t need to know about Armie’s deception since that would only sow doubt about his boyfriend’s motives.

“We had already met by then, yes. At Mud,” he says carefully. 

Brian glares, but Tim meets his eyes without looking away. He takes calming, deep breaths and reminds himself that this is Tim, whom he loves and respects. 

“So, you’re willing to jeopardize your career for someone you’ve only known a few weeks?” he scoffs. 

“No,” Tim sighs. “Obviously, I hope it doesn’t come to that. But if it does, know that I’m not doing this for Armie, not exactly. I’m doing this because I want to be myself, Brian. To be happy. I hope you, of all people, can understand that.” 

He wants to drum some sense into him, but he can tell Tim has made up his mind and the kid is stubborn. It’s his job to make sure this recklessness doesn’t ruin everything they’ve worked so hard to build. 

“Since you seem determined to do this, I want to meet him. When we get back from Toronto and before opening night, you bring him here,” he says tersely. 

“I’ll invite Nicole so the four of us can have a frank chat about how you will conduct your relationship to avoid public exposure. For one thing, you’ll continue the outings with Lily. We need her now more than ever.” 

Tim nods. “Thanks. We’ll come in Monday evening, after Armie gets off work.” 

“You’re taking a big risk, Tim,” Brian says, shaking his head in dismay. “I hope this guy is worth it.”

“He is.” 

* * * *

In Toronto, the frenzy around Tim picks up right where it left off with his last high-profile appearance at the Oscars in March. He was afraid the public’s interest might have waned; that in the months he spent off social media when he was virtually underground shooting _The King_ , fickle fans might have moved on to another rising star with good hair and excellent bone structure.  

Tim worried he might turn out to be just another flavor-of-the-week young actor who failed to hold the spotlight; a footnote in the annals of Hollywood history — the youngest best actor nominee in seven decades who faded into obscurity soon after losing the award. His reign as the “next big thing” cut short by the ruthlessly transient nature of twenty-first century fame. As it turns out, he had nothing to fear. 

Adoring, Sharpie-wielding throngs greet him everywhere he goes in the Canadian city, asking for autographs and selfies; thrusting novelty socks and inexpensive baubles into his hands. He is grateful, humbled and relieved.

After a draining full day of promotion, Tim is in his hotel suite getting ready for the premiere with his team when his phone vibrates. His stomach flutters when he sees Armie’s name.

 **Armie:** Hey babe, what are you doing? 

 **Sweet T:** last minute red carpet prep. Jamie is trying to do something with my hair. it’s a struggle. 😫

 **Armie:** You’ll be gorgeous. Send me a selfie before you leave.

 **Sweet T:** will do 

 **Armie:** I watched your interviews from earlier. 

 **Sweet T:** ugh. did I sound ok? i was kinda nervous talking about bb for the first time. 

 **Armie:** You were your usual brilliant and articulate self. I do have a question though. Did you go commando? 

 **Sweet T:** whaaaat??

 **Armie:** Those grey pants left _nothing_ to the imagination, T. 🍆😳

He texts a revealing screenshot from one of the videos. The stills are already making the rounds online.

 **Sweet T:** fuck! I didn’t want an underwear line. do you think people will notice? 

 **Armie:** It was pretty obvious, tbh. If you decide to go without knickers in the future, you should probably do a sit/stand test beforehand. 🤣

 **Sweet T:** Armiiieeee!

Armie chuckles and considers whether he should send the message he's typed. It may be over the line and he’s not sure how Tim will react. _Fuck it_. He decides to test the waters. If it makes him uncomfortable, he’ll apologize profusely and dial it back. 

 **Armie:** Honestly, I’m not thrilled you gave the entire Internet an eyeful of your cock when it belongs to me. 

 _Oh, shit._  

Tim blinks and reads the text twice, heat creeping up his neck. He hastily excuses himself and retreats to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. 

“Hey, Timmy,” his tone is light, deceptively innocent.

“Are you really upset?” he breathes into the phone. 

Armie’s eyebrows shoot up. _He sounds … turned on? Time to push a little further._

“No,” he pauses, lowering his voice and adding the slightest hint of reproach, “but I don’t like the thought of people ogling you. You’re mine and I don’t share, Timmy. Do I make myself clear?” 

Hot arousal pulses through his veins. Tim’s eyes fall shut as he reaches out with one hand to steady himself against the wall.“Yes, Armie,” he whimpers. 

He jumps at the sudden knock on the door. 

“Tim, we need to get going,” Brian says. 

“Have fun, baby. Call me when you get back to the hotel.” 

The line goes dead. 

Tim catches his reflection in the mirror — pink cheeks and dilated pupils. 

_What the fuck just happened?_

* * * *

The mouthwatering smell of sizzling bacon lures Tim from his bedroom and into the kitchen. His breath catches at the sight of a shirtless Armie whisking a bowl of eggs, muscles rippling beneath golden skin. 

“G’mornin’,” Tim croaks, voice still thick with sleep. His curls are a frizzy mess, eyes a little bleary and he’s wearing boxers and Armie’s Oakland T-shirt, which hangs loosely over his slim hips. He hops up on the counter and beckons, “C’mere.” 

“Morning, baby,” Armie smiles, moving to stand between his legs. Tim wraps his arms around Armie’s neck, kissing him eagerly and chasing his tongue. 

“Somebody’s needy,” he smirks when they part, his hands lightly massaging Tim’s thighs. 

“I missed you.” 

“You had me all last night, Timmy. Repeatedly.” 

Tim crosses his ankles behind Armie and pulls him closer. “Not enough,” he mumbles through another deep kiss. Tangling his fingers in Armie’s soft hair, Tim shoves his other hand down the back of his sweatpants, squeezing a bare cheek. 

“Hey, hey, our bacon is going to burn.” Pulling away, Armie turns back to the stove, leaving Tim pouting and frustrated. 

“Let me finish cooking breakfast and then you can paw me all you want.”

Tim pours himself a cup of coffee and shuffles out to the living room. He turns on one of the Sunday talk shows to catch up on the news he missed while he was up north. “Missed” turns out to be a relative term, of course, given the current administration. Sometimes he thinks he’d rather not know half the bullshit that is going on here. 

He’s side-eyeing a Republican senator who is defending the latest example of the president’s disregard for established norms when Armie emerges from the kitchen carrying two dishes loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. 

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, handing Tim a fork, napkin and one of the plates. 

“Famished.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

“You’re insatiable and incorrigible,” he laughs, shaking his head. As they tuck into their food, Armie’s thoughts drift to their reunion the night before.

_“Did you wear boxers the rest of the time you were in Toronto, baby?” he asked, lips ghosting over Tim’s throat. “Make sure no one else saw this cock?” Armie firmly gripped Tim’s erection._

_“Uh-huh,” he moaned._

_“Good boy.” Pressing his full weight against him, Armie stretched Tim’s arms above his head and wrapped his fist tightly around his boyfriend’s thin wrists. “Is this OK?” he murmured._

_Tim nodded frantically and —_

“Armie, did you hear what I said?” 

“Hmm?”  

“My parents are expecting us at 7 p.m..” 

“Uh, OK. So we need to leave in enough time to stop and pick up some wine.” 

“Babe, you don’t have to bring anything to dinner. It’s fine, really.” 

“Timmy, I’m not showing up empty handed. _My_ parents would disown me for doing something so gauche.” He collects their dishes and stacks them in the sink. 

“I’ll wash them later,” Tim calls out. “Come back.” 

When Armie reclaims his place on the love seat, Tim snuggles up close, slinging his legs across Armie’s lap. Humming contentedly, Armie drapes an arm around Tim’s shoulder, smoothing his hand up and down his arm.

“I know this is fast. Meeting my parents and everything, but it would be weird for the three of you to be at the party without having met.” 

“I agree. Don’t worry, I’m really good with parents. Except my own.” 

“Of course you are! Is there anything you’re not good at?” 

“I can think of a few hundred things.” Armie kisses the top of Tim’s head, breathing in his musty sleep smell. “Hey, are you OK with everything we did last night? Just because I like to, you know, be in control, if you’re not comfortable with that kind of stuff it’s totally fine if we don’t do it.” 

Tim tilts his head back so he can see Armie’s eyes. “I’d never done anything like that, never thought about it, really. Honestly, I’m a little surprised I liked it as much as I did. I guess you awakened my dormant submissive side,” he giggles, cupping Armie’s lightly stubbled cheek. “And I know that was pretty tame, since you were just holding me down and I wasn’t actually tied up or anything, but …” he bites his lip, “I’m open to exploring.” 

“Yeah?” Armie’s eyes darken. With his lips pulled back baring pearly fangs, he looks positively predatory. He pushes the T-shirt up and dips his fingers beneath the waistband of Tim’s boxers. 

“Fuck, yes.”  

* * * * 

Brian takes one look at Armie and understands why Tim is smitten — he’s tall, fit and incredibly handsome. Intelligent too, if the infamous article is any indication. Brian reminds himself that he shouldn’t regard him as an adversary. He hopes that if Armie’s feelings are as strong as Tim’s, he won’t want to do anything that could damage his boyfriend’s career.

“Mr. Hammer, it’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m Brian,” he says, extending his hand. 

“The pleasure’s all mine, sir. And please, call me Armie.”

“And this is Nicole Caruso,” Brian turns slightly toward the smiling dark-haired woman standing beside him, “Tim’s publicist.” 

“Ms. Caruso, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise. Call me Nicole.” 

The couple settles on the small sofa facing Nicole and Brian, who sit in matching arm chairs. 

“Armie, thanks for agreeing to meet,” Brian begins. “As you’re no doubt aware, Tim is at a critical stage in his career. He’s coming off the Oscar nomination, he shot a film in the spring, has another coming out in October and has signed on to a couple of big projects, so it’s imperative that we control his image. We can’t afford any scandals and, as you know from your reporting, if people find out Tim is dating a man … well, work might suddenly dry up.”

Brian makes eye contact with both of them before continuing, “This means the two of you have to be extremely careful when you’re out in public. Absolutely no hand holding, kissing, hugging or any other behavior that could be construed as romantic. Understood?” 

Armie’s eyes flick over to Tim, who’s watching him intently. Tim knows this is a lot to ask — acting like they don’t crave each other’s touch; like they don’t spend their days texting constantly and their nights twined together between wrinkled sheets, whispering about their childhoods, their dreams, the future. 

Maybe it’s too much to ask. Tim worries Armie may be unwilling to live this way. If the roles were reversed, he’s not sure he would agree to these terms.

Sensing Tim’s rising anxiety, Armie squeezes his hand reassuringly, strokes the back with his thumb. His touch is calming. Tim takes a deep breath and relaxes, wills his racing heart to slow down. 

Turning back toward Brian, the lovers nod solemnly. 

“Now, we do have a couple of advantages,” Brian adds. “Even though Tim’s fame is growing, most of the time he’s still able to move freely around the city cloaked in relative anonymity. And since you aren’t a celebrity, Armie, you shouldn’t draw undue attention when you’re out together.” 

“Well, yes and no,” Nicole interjects. “You two make a striking couple, so even if people don’t recognize Tim initially, they may take a second look simply because you’re attractive. _Then_ they may realize who Tim is and out come the phones. Don’t be lulled into complacency because you think you’re flying under the radar. Assume you’re always being watched.”  

Although her words send a chill down Armie’s spine, he smiles weakly for Tim’s benefit.

“Good point. The other arrow in our quiver, so to speak, is Lily. The tabloids believe she’s your girlfriend, but we have to keep the two of you in the public eye and maintain interest in your relationship. It will be easier for you guys to hide in plain sight if people believe Tim is dating Lily.”  

Brian notices how Armie stiffens at the mention of the young actress-model. Tim must see it too, because he scoots closer and lays his hand on Armie’s knee. 

“We may even have to ramp things up a bit,” Brian continues, willing himself not to squirm under Armie’s icy blue stare. “More interaction on social media, more frequent outings. What do you think, Nicole?” 

She tears her eyes away from the muscle twitching in Armie’s jaw. 

“I agree, Brian. For now, we’ll try liking and commenting on each other’s Instagram posts at least once each week and biweekly paparazzi shots. That will still give us some flexibility in the future if we need it.” 

“Will she be at the play tomorrow?” Armie asks in a flat voice. 

Brian and Nicole exchange a look. 

“Yes. And at the after party,” Brian says. “Since you brought it up, you two should probably keep your distance.” 

Armie snorts and rolls his eyes. Tim looks surprised. “Why?” 

“It will look suspicious if you’re hanging all over Armie, Tim. A lot of important theater and film people will be there to meet you, so you’ll have to make the rounds.” 

“And their attention will be focused on you, Tim,” Nicole reminds him gently. “The last thing we want to do is give people a reason to wonder who Armie is.” 

“OK,” he mumbles, glancing sideways at his visibly agitated boyfriend. 

Brian sighs heavily. _Lord, help us._  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Armie, Tim, Lily and free booze all in the same place. What could possibly go wrong? 
> 
> I'm not comfortable writing about Tim's parents (yes, I'm arbitrarily drawing the line at writing about real people there), so let's assume that they fell in love with Armie (because who wouldn't?) and approve of their relationship. 
> 
> Shameless plug: If you like high school AUs, consider checking out my Breakfast Club inspired story, "Don't You Forget About Me."


	17. All the World's a Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armie is frustrated and Tim feels guilty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I sincerely apologize for the three months it's taken me to update. I have no excuse except to say that I hit a wall with this chapter and even though I knew where I wanted it to go (or so I thought), the words just would not come to me. Ultimately, I ended up someplace completely different. I'm not satisfied with this chapter at all and I hope none of you are too disappointed, but it's been much too long so I figured I should just post it. 
> 
> I hope I can get back on track now. Thanks to all of you who reached out in the comments or on Tumblr to gently ask me when I might update. Even though I was struggling mightily, it was really nice to know that folks were still interested in this story! Thank you for the comments and kudos, too. Your continued support means everything to me! 
> 
> We pick up on opening night of Tim's play.

The applause is rapturous and sustained. 

When it finally appears to be dying down, another wave rolls from the rear of the theater, crashes over the orchestra and recedes, like water sloshing inside a sealed bottle. 

Onstage, the cast soaks up the adoration, their expressions an endearing blend of delight and relief. They’ve sailed through opening night without miscues, flubbed lines or dropped props. Tim stands front and center, beaming with flushed cheeks and shining eyes.

Armie is smiling so widely his cheeks ache. Realizing with a rush that he spent the entire play breathing shallowly, with hands clenched and nerves stretched taut, Armie inhales deeply, filling his lungs. Pride blooms in his chest. Part of him still can’t believe this gifted, exquisite creature has chosen him, in spite of his flaws which nearly tore them apart. Armie isn’t religious, but he has never felt more blessed. 

Maya grins at him with the same wide-eyed wonder he’d felt the first time he watched Tim’s scintillating performance. Still clapping, she shakes her head in disbelief, mouths “Wow!” then turns her attention back to the stage, where a young man is handing Tim and his co-stars bouquets of peach and orange roses. 

* * * *

“Fix your face. You look like you could cut a bitch,” Maya murmurs, sidling up to him nibbling on a vegetable potsticker.

“I’m trying.” 

Scowling, Armie gulps another mouthful of scotch, savoring the trail of fire sliding down his throat. 

 _Baby sips, Hammer_. 

“Mm-hm. Try harder.”

If he and Tim were at this elegant rooftop lounge on a date, huddled together on the terrace near the fire pit to ward off the evening chill or tucked into a corner of one of the sumptuous leather sofas, Armie would be content. He imagines how luminous Tim would look under the silvery moonlight or in the soft, golden glow of the lamps inside.

This isn’t a romantic night out with his boyfriend, though. In fact, he hasn’t once spoken to Tim since they arrived at the after party. 

Unable to interact with Tim, Armie is nursing his second drink, trying to keep enough alcohol in his bloodstream to maintain his equilibrium, without toppling headlong into sloppy drunkenness.  

So far, it’s working. Just barely.

He’s about to suggest stepping outside for air, when Lily glides across the room toward Tim. When she arrived at the party, the first thing Armie noticed is that she’s prettier in person than she is in photographs, which he finds ironic since she’s a model. 

Wearing a black cocktail dress Maya excitedly informs him is vintage Chanel (he can’t imagine why she thinks he cares), artfully applied make-up and with her hair cascading in gentle waves down her back, Lily appears typecast for the role of glamorous Hollywood girlfriend. Paired with Tim in his slim black trousers and patterned jacket, they make a striking couple. 

_Faux couple. Fuck._

When Lily loops her arm through Tim’s and kisses his cheek, Armie’s blood pressure soars and a vein throbs painfully in his temple. He knew tonight would be difficult, but he truly didn’t expect to feel this rattled. He abandoned the closet a long time ago and vowed he’d never let anyone shove him back in — not his parents with their close-minded beliefs, not society with its bigotry and certainly not a cowed lover. Yet, here he is, helplessly watching his boyfriend flirt with a woman he doesn’t want, for the benefit of an audience he may never fully appease. 

The rational part of his brain knows none of this is Tim’s fault — he’s just as unhappy about Brian’s ‘pretend you don’t know each other’ edict as Armie is — but that doesn’t temper his frustration. 

Swearing under his breath, he drains his tumbler. 

“I’m getting another drink. Would you like something?” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Maybe you should slow down,” Maya frowns, her brow creased with worry. 

Setting the empty glass down a little too hard on the table beside him, Armie snaps, “I _am_ going slow. I’ve only had two drinks in,” he checks his watch, “not quite two hours. I’m fine.” 

True, he’s not drunk. But he’s also not fine, and his false bravado doesn’t fool Maya, who understands the emotional toll the evening is taking. She sees it in his brittle smile and the tension draped across his shoulders like a scratchy cloak. Although she’s enjoying hobnobbing with luminaries of American theater — earlier she shared a surreal moment with Patti LuPone gushing over the shiitake nori rolls — Maya is there to provide moral support and to prevent her best friend from sabotaging his relationship in a fit of jealous pique. 

So, she takes his surliness in stride. Eyeing her nearly empty highball of fizzy club soda, Maya decides she needs something stronger to make it through the rest of the evening. 

“I’ll have a dirty martini.” 

Crossing the room, out of the corner of his eye Armie sees Lily giggle and toss her light brown locks over her slender shoulder. Glowering, he thinks, uncharitably, that she’s a better actress than model because he would buy her performance if he didn’t know better. 

“What can I get you, sir?” 

“A dirty martini and a scotch, please. Make it a double.” 

He’s absentmindedly swirling his index finder through a few beads of moisture on the polished mahogany surface when his eyes meet Tim’s in the mirror behind the bar. Holding his gaze, Armie slowly drags his teeth over his bottom lip, leaving a wet sheen behind. He knows he’s not playing fair, but he doesn’t care. Tim’s eyes widen and even at this distance, Armie can read the longing on his face. Gut twisting with want, Armie looks away first. 

When he returns with their drinks, Maya is chatting with a bespectacled middle-aged man.

“Christopher, this is my friend Armand Hammer, a reporter at Buzzbeat. Armie, Christopher Bradford. ” 

Bradford, the legendary Times theater critic, needs no further introduction. 

“Hammer?” he asks, shaking Armie’s hand. “Did you write that fascinating piece on homophobia and arranged relationships in the film industry?” 

“I did, yes.”

“I’m considerably older than you two, so I remember finding out Rock Hudson and Tab Hunter were gay. It’s truly appalling that actors still feel they have to remain in the closet to have a successful career in Hollywood.” 

Armie is careful not to glance over at Tim. 

“Anyway, Armie, may I call you Armie?” 

“Yes, of course.”  

“Unpleasant subject, but you wrote with an impressive degree of empathy and nuance. Solid reporting, as well. What do you cover at Buzzbeat?” 

“Pop culture, celebrities and entertainment,” he says, cheeks burning with embarrassment. There’s nothing like admitting to a lion of the profession that most of your work is shallow and inconsequential. 

“Hmm. Is that what you want to be doing five years from now? 

The question surprises him. It’s odd coming from someone he’s only just met, especially in a casual setting. But Bradford sounds genuinely curious, not condescending or judgmental, so the inquiry doesn’t raise Armie’s hackles as it might under different circumstances. Although it’s never wise to publicly bad mouth one’s employer or admit to seeking a better gig, especially in gossipy New York media circles, Armie wants to make it clear he has greater ambitions than writing about rival YouTuber drama. Besides, this is an opportunity he’s not likely to have again, so he aims for circumspect candor. 

“No, I’d really like to move into hard news,” he says carefully. “Politics, immigration, education. Something along those lines.” 

Taking a long pull on his brandy, Bradford squints at Armie over the rim of his glass. Nodding, he draws an engraved silver case from his inside jacket pocket and retrieves a business card, passing it to Armie clasped between his index and middle fingers.

“Here’s my card. Perhaps we can meet for coffee soon. Send me an email. Maya, my dear, it was a pleasure,” he bows slightly in her direction, his thick mane of silver hair flopping over his brow. 

Once Bradford has moved out of earshot, Maya clutches his arm and squeals, “Oh my god! He’s impressed with your work and he wants to help you get out of Buzzbeat!” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, May. Maybe he just wants to discuss my story.” 

Maya narrows her eyes at him.

“I see what you’re doing, you don’t want to get your hopes up. Fair enough. But I have a good feeling about this, Armie. I’m sure Christopher Bradford doesn’t invite every young reporter he meets to coffee. To quote our former vice president, ‘this is a big fucking deal.’ His endorsement can open doors for you at top-tier publications across the city.” 

Slipping her arm around his waist, Maya raises her glass in a toast. “See, tonight hasn’t been a total disaster, after all.” 

Armie rolls his eyes, but he can’t help grinning at her penchant for putting a positive spin on even the worst situation. A tiny ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds of his dour mood. 

“Sorry for being pissy earlier,” he sighs.

Smiling, she waves away his apology.

“It’s fine, I know you didn’t mean it. You’re actually holding up surprisingly well, so far. But maybe cool it on the booze after that one.” 

Armie raises an eyebrow and sips the smokey, amber liquor. “We’ll see. I’m not making any promises.”  

****

Watching from across the room, Tim is relieved to see Armie smile genuinely for the first time. For a brief moment, the rigid mask slips and his sweet, loving boyfriend looks like himself. Guilt gnaws at his insides knowing Armie is trying to hide his hurt and disappointment.  

“— don’t you agree, Timmy?” 

Lily is watching him expectantly, but Tim has no idea what she said. Falling back on his natural charm, he fakes his way through a noncommittal response that seems to satisfy the small group clustered around him. 

More than two hours after the final curtain call and his performance buzz is just beginning to ebb. Making the rounds, Tim bashfully accepts lavish praise from a glittering assemblage of Broadway producers, actors and playwrights. He also chats with several critics, his parents, Matt and a few other friends he invited. All the while, he remains keenly aware of where Armie is and what he’s doing at all times. 

Likewise, Armie has tracked Tim’s movements as he works the room. He’s kept a wary eye on one thirty-something guy — tall, dark hair and distinguished in an expensive grey suit — who’s been circling Tim like a vulture all evening. Finally seeing an opening, the guy swoops in entirely too close for Armie’s liking and says something that makes Tim laugh in that crinkle-eyed, open-mouthed way that leaves Armie breathless with affection. 

When the handsome stranger lays a hand on Tim’s bicep, Armie decides he’s seen enough. 

“May, will you hold my drink?” 

Before she can respond, he thrusts the glass into her hand, sloshing some of the liquid over the side. Turning abruptly on his heel, Armie plows through the guests.

Tim retrieves his vibrating phone from his jacket pocket while the older man’s attention is focused momentarily on Lily and his co-star Jason.

 **Armie:** Restroom in 5 minutes.

Tim’s eyes sweep across the lounge, but he doesn’t see him. Engaged in a lively conversation with his husband and a few other people, Brian isn’t paying Tim any attention. Neither is Nicole, who’s chatting with an artsy couple dressed in black.  

“Would you please excuse me?” he asks, slipping away and ignoring the look of disappointment on the man’s face. 

When he reaches the dimly lit hallway, Tim hesitates, unsure if he should wait there or venture inside the bathroom. Suddenly, the door swings open and Armie’s large hand encircles his wrist, dragging him over the threshold and into the stall farthest from the door. 

“Armie! What’s —”

Cutting him off, Armie kisses Tim fiercely, backing him up until he’s pressed against the cool tiled wall. Tim eagerly parts his lips to accept Armie’s probing tongue, moaning low and clutching his shoulders. Like flames engulfing dry tinder, heat races along the surface of Tim’s skin when Armie pushes his hands under his shirt, fingertips skimming over his back and sides. 

Warm and wet, Tim’s mouth feels like salvation. Armie is dizzy and never wants to stop kissing him, but he knows this is risky and they don’t have much time. 

Wrenching his mouth away, he folds his body into Tim, wrapping his arms tightly around his slender waist. Resting his forehead on his shoulder, Armie huffs hot breaths against his neck. 

“Is this normal?” he whispers, lips brushing lightly over Tim’s throat.

“Hmm, is what normal?” 

“Missing you this desperately when we’re in the same room? When we woke up in your bed together this morning?” 

“Baby…” Tim sighs, running his fingers through Armie’s hair and scratching lightly at his scalp. 

“I know this sounds crazy and I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I don’t like her touching you.”

“Hey,” Tim pulls back slightly so he can see Armie’s eyes. Cupping his face in his hands, thumbs brushing lightly over Armie’s cheeks, Tim’s voice is gentle, “You know we’re just acting, right? Lily has zero interest in me as anything but a friend.” 

“I know, but … fuck, Tim. She gets to stand at your side and play the supportive girlfriend when all I want to do is tell everyone out there how goddamn proud of you I am,” he whines. “It’s not fair.” 

“Believe me, I’d much rather be with you. I’m sorry we have to do this, I know it's hard,” he presses a soft kiss to Armie’s cheek. “Look, I’m not sure how much longer I have to stay, but why don’t you go home with Maya and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.” 

Armie snorts. “And leave you with that dude who’s trying to get in your pants? I don’t think so.” 

“What dude?” 

“The one who’s been on your ass all night, figuratively speaking. Who the hell is he anyway?”

When Tim draws a blank, Armie adds, “Grey suit, black hair. Slick.” 

“Oh, Declan,” he shrugs one shoulder. “I think he’s a friend of one of the producers.” 

Armie grunts. 

“Are you jealous?” Tim grins, green eyes twinkling. 

“Nope. Jealousy implies I have something to worry about, which I don’t. But I’m gonna need him to back the fuck up.” 

Giggling, Tim is about to say something suggestive to rile Armie up further, when the door to the restroom opens with a swish. Panicked, Tim freezes, but Armie quickly picks him up and stands him on the toilet seat. When one foot slips on the slick surface, Armie grasps Tim by the hips, helping him regain his balance before his leather boot plunges into the bowl. Crouching down so his head isn’t visible over the top of the stall divider, Tim braces himself with his hands against the walls. Armie faces forward so his feet are pointing in the right direction if someone peers under the door. 

With his heart thudding against his ribs, Tim closes his eyes and envisions a lurid TMZ headline, his name added to an industry blacklist and his once promising career flushed down the commode between his feet. 

For a few agonizing minutes, they wait practically holding their breath while several people relieve themselves at the urinals. When the last footsteps retreat and the door shuts, Tim hops down and sags with relief against Armie. 

“Fuck, that was close,” he gasps.  

“Jesus Christ," Armie says stiffly, dragging his hand over his face. "You need to get back out there, you’ve been gone far too long." 

Tim kisses Armie one last time before ducking out into the hallway. Left alone, Armie grips the edge of the vanity and stares at his ashen face in the mirror over the sink. His palms are sweaty, his stomach churns and the acrid taste of alcohol lingers on his tongue. 

He wonders if he can really live like this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
